


Stranded with the Enemy

by jellybeanforest



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Brock Rumlow is a dick, Bullying, Cap-Ironman Bingo, Enemies to Lovers, Enemy Mine - Freeform, Honeypot, Identity Porn, M/M, Stranded on a deserted island, Superhero Captain America, Supervillain Iron Man, Survival, Temporary alliance, workplace harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:13:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22120855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: Stranded on an uninhabited island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with his arch-nemesis, Iron Man, Captain America must survive until S.H.I.E.L.D. locates his downed Quinjet and sends an extraction team to collect them.For the Cap-IronMan Bingo 2019 Round 2 – Enemy Mine.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 84
Kudos: 469
Collections: Captain America/Iron Man Bingo, Stony*, Survivor: Marvel vs Nature





	1. The Honest Way

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the movie Enemy Mine about two mortal enemies who become friends after being stranded together. This takes place circa 2014-2015ish. It remixes the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, but Age of Ultron doesn’t happen because Tony is a villain at the time and not part of the Avengers, which means he is never inspired to create Ultron. Prior to the events of this fic, Tony has the arc reactor surgically removed (like he did at the end of Iron Man 3 in 2013), so the one powering his suit is not necessary for his survival.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The villainous Iron Man proves to be an intractable problem for S.H.I.E.L.D., destroying strategically-significant bases and research. Steve Rogers (AKA Captain America) vows to take him down but is thwarted at every opportunity. 
> 
> At least his personal life has taken a turn for the better now that S.H.I.E.L.D. consultant and resident genius, Tony Stark, has acted upon their mutual attraction. Now, as S.H.I.E.L.D. plots to capture Iron Man in Siberia, Steve considers that maybe after this is all over, he and Tony can finally take a vacation someplace warm.

By the time S.H.I.E.L.D. deploys Captain America to the scene of Iron Man’s latest attack, the man in question has already come and gone, destroying a military compound housing servers containing years of research on advanced tech as well as the fruits of that research, samples and prototypes both. Iron Man had blasted the entire lot, with the resulting fire taking care of the remains. Much too late, Steve stands amidst the smoldering ashes, frustrated that his arch nemesis had managed to deal such a serious blow to American interests. Unlike the terrorists and pirates he normally dealt with, there had been no threat of an imminent attack, no ransom demands in the aftermath, and ultimately no reason for Iron Man to dally while S.H.I.E.L.D. assembled the STRIKE force to deal with the unfolding situation.

No.

With no discernable motive, Iron Man appears to be a different type of criminal altogether, a more dangerous breed: One who only wants to watch things burn.

He stands as Captain America’s only failure. The few times Steve and Iron Man fought – in the early days when the latter had deigned to stick around – had been to a standstill, Iron Man’s armor proving a match for Captain America’s shield in battle before Iron Man invariably took to the air to escape.

But Steve is persistent, determined. He will take down Iron Man if it’s the last thing he does.

* * *

“Perhaps he’s a mercenary,” Brock Rumlow ponders aloud as he and Steve lounge in the break room after their pointless debrief. “He’s selling his services to the highest bidder. Maybe we could set up a trap where we put out an offer to hit a warehouse–”

“Iron Man isn’t a mercenary,” Steve states, taking a sip of his coffee while leaning against the counter. “He only hits S.H.I.E.L.D. targets. This isn’t for money. It’s personal.”

The compound is a complete loss. Collapsed and burned to the ground in under ten minutes with Iron Man deftly attacking key vulnerabilities: support beams and gas lines. It must have taken considerable research and planning to do what he did, and with everything destroyed, it is hard to tell what (if anything) had been taken.

Rumlow appears to accept his deduction before wondering aloud, “What do you think he looks like under all that metal?”

Steve shrugs. “Don’t know.” They didn’t even have eye color to go off of, the full-body Iron Man suit covering all discernable features of his face if not his body.

“You think he’s an ugly sonuvabitch?”

“Hard to tell. He must be athletic though.” Steve had often wondered, idly, whether the shell encasing Iron Man speaks to his shapely form. Is it a snug fit with the plates covering the natural planes of his body?

“Wouldn’t be too sure about that. It could just be the armor, a power fantasy. For all we know, he’s a skinny runt – an asthmatic little weakling – who built himself a better body instead of earning it the honest way,” Rumlow says, staring pointedly at Steve. “He’s probably a shrimp wearing high-tech lifts.”

_The honest way?_

Steve frowns at the obvious insinuation. “You got something you want to say to me?” He’s not an idiot; he knows what Rumlow is implying.

Rumlow holds up his hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. “Meant no offense, Rogers. Just pointing out that we know nothing about the man, not even his physique, is all.”

In the early days of Project Rebirth, Steve had struggled with his new body. He is so much bigger, so much stronger than he had been in the first twenty-four years of life that it had been quite the adjustment (both physical and mental) to navigate the world as a man people didn’t automatically dismiss. Even now, he sometimes feels like an imposter who didn’t quite deserve half the accolades he receives. Still, though he may not have ‘earned’ this body, he is putting it to damn good use.

“Doesn’t matter who he is. Iron Man is still a mere mortal. He’ll make a mistake one of these days, then we’ll catch him,” Rumlow assures him with a friendly pat and squeeze of Steve’s shoulder. Steve is inclined to twist it off, but if he breaks a coworker’s hand, Fury is going to bury him in paperwork, and that would be a waste of an afternoon.

Steve hears the man approach before he sees him.

He still remembers that very first day when they met. _It’s a pleasure, Mr. Stark,_ Steve had said.

 _Please, Captain Rogers,_ he had replied. _Mr. Stark is my father. Call me–_

“Tony! When did you get in?” Steve’s mood visibly brightens as he looks past Rumlow towards the man standing in the doorway.

“Do mine eyes deceive me? Workplace fraternization?” Tony Stark, frequent S.H.I.E.L.D. consultant with a starring role in many of Steve’s fantasies, interjects as he swans past the two men to avail the coffee machine of its services. “And here I thought I was your one and only. Cap, you wound me. I’m crushed, I tell you, absolutely, irretrievably crushed. I may never recover.”

Rumlow retracts his touch and steps away, clearly disgusted with Stark’s insinuation of possible homosexual leanings. “Of course they called you in,” he states, his tone unsurprised but already weary of the man’s flamboyant presence.

“Hm,” Tony confirms, pouring himself a cup. “A bunch of tech is destroyed; S.H.I.E.L.D. wants the very best to try to salvage anything left, although what they expect me to do with a pile of melted hard drives is anyone’s guess. I’m good, but no one’s that good.” He takes a sip. “Either of you boys want to fill me in on what Iron Man burned down this time?”

“You know that’s classified,” Rumlow points out.

“Was it Hammer Tech?” Tony hazards a guess, unperturbed by Rumlow’s censure. “You can tell me; I won’t be sore. We never agreed to exclusivity after all, and I’m far from a jealous man. However, I feel I must warn you, as one of my best customers: Hammer is a hack, and his tech is ten years behind. At least. Worse, in fact. His stuff is like Chinese knock-offs of tech from ten years ago. Cheap and barely functional, but you know what they say: You get what you pay for.”

Rumlow rubs the line of his closed eyes, sighing heavily, “We don’t make the purchase orders, Stark. We just work here.”

“Sorry, was I talking to you, Lieutenant Redshirt?” Tony hits back then waves a hand in Steve’s direction. “I was obviously talking to the good captain here, the man who likely has Fury’s ear and might be able to put in a good word or two on my behalf. You can’t trust our nation’s security to a man like Hammer. He’ll sell you out to the Russians first chance he gets.”

“Like you wouldn’t,” Rumlow counters.

Steve is more diplomatic as he supplies, “I don’t think S.H.I.E.L.D. is working with Hammer Industries.” He’s not sure what had been stored in the compound, but he knows the top brass were unimpressed with Justin Hammer’s presentation the year prior. Whatever it had been was likely an internal project by the DoD.

Rumlow pushes past Steve, purposely knocking against his shoulder. “Try not to give away too many trade secrets, lover-boy,” he mutters before exiting the break room and the conversation altogether.

Tony watches him go. “He doesn’t like me, does he?”

“He doesn’t like many people,” Steve says, though even he had to admit Rumlow’s dislike isn’t unwarranted (this time). Rumlow and Stark had never gotten along, and it didn’t help that Tony seemed to purposely needle him at every opportunity. Tony might have even gotten a sick sort of pleasure from the exercise, almost reveling in the man’s aversion to his person.

Normally, Steve didn’t take too kindly to bullies, but maybe Rumlow earned it the _honest way_ , and it wasn’t like the man himself is completely helpless. Steve can’t fault Tony’s methods just because he chose to use verbal barbs instead of fists to settle their differences.

“So… you wouldn’t happen to know what was on those servers, would you? Maybe I could better help recover what was lost if I knew what I was looking for,” Tony continues, taking another sip from his mug and looking expectantly up at Steve over the rim.

Steve has no idea, not that he would divulge the truth if he had been privy to it (considering it was likely a matter of national security), so instead he segues (clumsily) to something he does know. “Say, have you heard of this musical playing The Majestic Theater: _The Phantom of the Opera_? It’s supposed to be really good.”

“Have I heard of _The Phantom of the Opera_? The longest-running, most-successful musical in Broadway history?” Tony repeats, but when Steve looks a touch embarrassed and sheepish at the faux pas, he replies, “Never heard of it.”

Steve smiles. Everyone always treats him like a fossil from some bygone era or an untouchable hero but not Tony Stark. He is not particularly deferential nor is he nervous to be in the presence of Captain America, choosing to treat Steve like a normal person. It’s an attitude Steve found refreshing at first, but now he desperately wants a chance to impress the man, to see how well their natural chemistry lends itself to romance – during dinner, coffee, whatever – so he fumbles, looking more at the floor than at the man as he posits, “I was… um, thinking… if you aren’t busy this Saturday–”

“Sorry, Cap,” and somehow Tony always manages to sound so genuinely regretful. “Have to take a rain check.”

Steve takes the rejection in stride as he had the prior two times he had tried to proposition the man, playfully inquiring, “So, when are you going to let me take you out?”

“I’m a busy man, but perhaps someday when the headline the morning after won’t be ‘Tony Stark attempts to sleep his way to better S.H.I.E.L.D. contracts,’” he replies smoothly, sweeping an outstretched hand, palm out, to emphasize each word, as if he can see it in bold print already.

Steve is disappointed but understanding. Tony is clearly attracted to him as well if his demeanor is any indication, but it’s their line of work keeping them apart. Neither of them are quitting anytime soon, so Steve simply has to accept that the two of them can go no further than the occasional flirtation. Still, when Tony walks away, Steve can’t help but stare at his ass swaying side-to-side, hopelessly infatuated with the man and wishing things could be different.

* * *

Strategy has determined a pattern in Iron Man’s attacks. The algorithm is classified of course, but Director Fury hands Steve a list of potential targets with one underlined twice. Whatever Iron Man is doing, this site is of utmost importance to his plan. He will likely attack it sooner rather than later, so S.H.I.E.L.D. deploys Steve and his team to an abandoned Army base in Virginia: Camp Lehigh.

Steve sets up patrols, positioning STRIKE force members at key posts to ensure Iron Man won’t be able to infiltrate the facility undetected before surveying the grounds himself.

Camp Lehigh is different than when Steve had trained here so many decades ago. Once a military training ground filled to the brim with new recruits originating from up and down the eastern seaboard, it lies shuttered and mostly abandoned, undergoing minimal maintenance between overseas conflicts to prevent deterioration until such a time it is needed again. Steve peers off into the distance at a dirt clearing, remembering how he and his fellow soldiers struggled to carry packs and supplies through obstacles and over long distances to prepare for battle on the Western front. It had been hard, but Steve had told himself at the time that he was making a difference, making the world safer. He had been so optimistic back then, despite the dire circumstances, but when he woke up and reviewed the history he had missed – about HUAC and the Cold War, Vietnam and the rise of Neo Nazism, the growing tendency to value safety and complacency over freedom and what is right – he often wondered.

In the end, they had won, but at what cost?

Rumlow interrupts his reverie. “Remembering the time you sucked off your superior officer behind the barracks to pass basic training? Those were the good old days.”

“I didn’t have to exchange sexual favors to earn my position,” Steve says, thoroughly unamused.

“You’re saying Captain AmericASS: XXX isn’t an accurate representation of your origin story?”

“And you’re saying you watched an unauthorized gay porn parody of my life?” he deadpans, his brow quirking up. “I’d like to say I’m flattered, but do I have to get Linda from HR involved?”

Now it’s Rumlow’s turn to be offended by the implication. He crosses his arms, turning to face Steve. “I don’t watch gay porn.”

“Or so you say.”

Rumlow is about to respond with another cutting barb when Steve hears the creak of metal and muffled but deliberate pounding. It sounds distant, soft and well below the range of normal human hearing. So he stares past the man at the source, a munitions bunker positioned much too close to living quarters.

“What is it now?” Rumlow asks when Steve walks past him, making a beeline towards the facility as he falls into step at his side.

“Army regulations forbid storing ammunition within five hundred yards of the barracks,” Steve explains, approaching the locked doors. “This building is in the wrong place.” He jangles the chains reinforcing the lock.

“Something tells me we aren’t allowed inside. How about we–”

“There’s someone in there,” Steve states with certainty, but before Rumlow can suggest they seek authorization from S.H.I.E.L.D., Steve raises his shield and brings the edge down on the lock, snapping it in twain. He tosses away the broken links, opening the door and stepping through. “You coming?”

“Or we can just destroy government property,” Rumlow mutters under his breath, but he follows after Steve nonetheless.

Steve switches on a light, revealing an abandoned S.H.I.E.L.D. office – the original one, if the trio of portraits of Colonel Phillips, Peggy, and Howard on the wall and the layer of dust over everything is any indication. He draws closer to the commotion, towards a large bookshelf in a private office.

“What are we doing here, Rogers? This place is empty,” Rumlow complains. “We should be up top, following orders.”

Steve ignores him, instead pondering, “If you’re already working in a secret office…” he pushes the bookshelf which opens to reveal closed elevator doors, “Why do you need to hide the elevator?” Steve attempts to recall the elevator by pressing the button on the side, but when he’s unsuccessful, he impatiently jimmies the doors open using his shield as leverage to reveal an empty elevator shaft, the bottom terminating in dark nothingness.

Rumlow looks less impressed than he should be, considering the circumstances. “Or just the elevator shaft. It’s clearly broken, and you’ve only–”

“Sh!” Steve can hear the tinny banging of metal against metal. “Someone’s down there. I can climb down and–”

“Rogers, we have to go!” Rumlow states, placing a hand on his shoulder to pull him back from the elevator.

“That’s what I’m say–”

“No! There’s an incoming missile. Short range. Sixty-eight seconds to clear out.”

“Who fired it?”

“Unclear, but we have to go!” he insists as he and Steve take off running towards the exit. Steve is already calling it in over the comms, ordering the STRIKE team to evacuate their positions immediately and seek cover.

However, by the time Steve and Rumlow make it outside, it’s already too late for them, so Steve grabs the other man by the back of his uniform, throws him into a shallow ditch that some poor sap must have been ordered to dig as a latrine a while back, then jumps on top, shield facing outward to protect them both from the resulting blast. In the seconds before Steve covers them and faces away, hoping for the best, he thinks he sees the signature red and gold armor of Iron Man launching into the sky, the repulsors in his hands and feet glowing bright blue.

And so when they emerge from the crevice in the aftermath, coughing from the dust and soot but otherwise unharmed, Steve tells Rumlow what he saw. “It was Iron Man. He was already here when we arrived. He must have called in an air strike to destroy whatever S.H.I.E.L.D. had been keeping here.”

“You saw him?”

“Yeah, right before he lit up the place,” he brushes off the debris from his shield. “When are they going to let us in on what they know? S.H.I.E.L.D. anticipated his next move. They must know what he’s after, and I don’t like going into situations blind when I don’t have to. We may be soldiers, but we aren’t that expendable.”

“Maybe you’re right about it being a grudge,” Rumlow allows, still coughing as he stares out at the charred remains around him, low flames licking the ruins. “You saw this place before it became a pile of rubble. No one’s been here in years, but if the other sites he hit were significant to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s history, maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t know his exact plans. They just sent us to historically-important locations.”

It’s a good theory, but it still didn’t sit quite right with Steve. Why wouldn’t S.H.I.E.L.D. let them in on what they knew if that had been the extent of their suspicions?

So in lieu of a response, Steve clicks on his comm. “Rumlow and Rogers checking in,” he states, “Everyone else, report if you’re still breathing.”

* * *

Another debrief with an incensed Fury is the last thing Steve needs.

They go over the events preceding Iron Man’s destruction of Camp Lehigh: STRIKE team’s initial patrol formation, Steve’s discovery of the secret elevator inside a defunct (but still classified) office, and finally his damning eye witness account of Iron Man fleeing the scene moments before impact.

“Are you going to share how S.H.I.E.L.D. knew Iron Man was going to target Camp Lehigh?” Steve finally asks, having stayed behind while the others cleared out of the conference room.

Fury’s tone is unaccommodating, suspicious. “You know that’s classified.”

“Classified? You sent us into a suicide mission with insufficient intel,” Steve retorts. “Good men could have died today.”

“I sent the greatest soldier in history to make sure that didn’t happen.”

“Soldiers trust each other; that’s what makes it an army. Not a bunch of guys running around shooting guns.” Despite his best efforts to bond with his team, STRIKE is no Howling Commandoes. Rumlow could never be…

He remembers kind blue eyes set in a familiar face and a warm voice telling him, _I’m with you to the end of the line, pal._

Steve pushes the memories away, stuffing them back into a mental box of _Things We Don’t Think About._

Fury comes in close, his single eye staring down Steve. “The last time I trusted someone, I lost an eye.”

But Steve doesn’t back down. “What would we have found if we rode that elevator down?” he challenges him, leaning forward, tapping a pointed finger into the surface of the table. “What was Iron Man after?”

“Hm… Elevators,” Fury says as he settles back in his chair. “You know my granddad used to operate one for forty years. He worked in a nice building; he got good tips. He’d walk home every night, roll of ones stuffed in his lunch bag. He’d say ‘hi.’ People would say ‘hi’ back. Time went on; neighborhood got rougher. He’d say ‘hi;’ they’d say ‘Keep on steppin’.’ Granddad got to grippin’ that lunch bag a little tighter.”

The man must be going somewhere with this, so Steve decides to play along. “Did he ever get mugged?”

Fury chuckles lightly, curling his upper lip. “Every week some punk would say, ‘What’s in the bag?’”

“What did he do?”

“He’d show ‘em. Bunch of crumpled ones and a loaded .22 Magnum,” he replies, smiling. “Granddad loved people. But he didn’t trust them very much.”

And there it is.

“You don’t get far by trusting that everyone fighting on the same side is doing just that, Cap,” Fury elaborates. “You never know who might be double-dealing, who is under that mask.”

_A mole._

Steve nods, understanding Fury’s unspoken allegation. “Any idea who it might be?”

“In this line of work, you can’t trust anyone.”

* * *

Iron Man resurfaces, destroying three Helicarriers that comprised Project Insight, a defense and counter-strike system authorized by the World Security Council and created through a collaboration between the S.H.I.E.L.D. and Stark Industries. It is – _was_ – designed to target, verify the identity of, and surgically remove multiple potential threats to global security in seconds with deadly precision.

And now it is in shambles, broken up into a million pieces over the Hudson Bay, all thanks to Iron Man.

Steve can’t say he’s particularly upset by the development.

“Let me get this straight: You were planning to execute people before they did anything wrong?” Steve challenges Fury, having come to his office to make his complaints heard out of earshot from the other members of S.H.I.E.L.D. “I thought the punishment usually came after the crime.”

“After New York, I convinced the World Security Council we needed a quantum surge in threat analysis. For once, we _were_ way ahead of the curve.”

“By holding a gun at everyone on Earth and calling it protection?”

Fury regards him, skeptical of the man’s hypocrisy. “You know, I read those SSR files. Greatest generation? You guys did some nasty stuff.”

Steve isn’t about to let what he and his compatriots did during the Survival War justify what S.H.I.E.L.D. planned to do now. There is a difference between retaliation and a pre-emptive strike, after all. “Yeah, we compromised. Sometimes in ways that made us not sleep so well. But we did it so the people could be free. This wasn’t freedom; this was fear.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. takes the world as it is, not as we’d like it to be,” Fury states, far too weary of Steve’s idealism. “It’s getting damn near past time for you to get with the program, Cap.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Steve says before walking out, down the halls of the Triskelion.

He promptly runs into Stark, heading in the opposite direction, towards Fury’s office. Steve wants to be annoyed with him – he had been part of the committee that had built Project Insight, his tech (which had been previously stolen by Iron Man) powering the turbines that would have kept the Helicarriers in the air indefinitely – but the man himself looks tired and inexplicably beaten down, with his arm in a sling and a shiner gracing his right eye.

“What happened to you?” Steve inquires instead, concern warring with irritation and winning handily.

“A particularly contentious game of racquetball,” Tony answers, nonchalant and not even the slightest bit embarrassed about his public brawl, as is his signature PR style. “The fight leaked online. Went viral. Two million views and counting, which… considering the news day we’re having is rather impressive, don’t you think? You must have seen it.”

Steve barely uses a computer, much less the Internet. “Did you have that checked out by a doctor?”

Tony shrugs. “Yeah, Pepper was on my ass to seek medical attention as soon as the video posted. _A concussion could hurt stock prices,_ she says, as if this whole government watchdog thing isn’t threatening to sink us as it is.”

Tony just had to bring up his role in this whole fiasco, didn’t he?

Steve leads him by the elbow into an empty janitorial closet, not trusting the conference rooms to not be bugged.

“Why Captain, I never thought you’d be so forward, but if you insist…” Tony teases, his eyes sparkling as Steve closes the door behind them.

Steve ignores his attempts at flirtation. This is serious. Tony’s face falls when he fails to solicit so much as a smile from him. The closet is a tight fit. Between the mop and bucket behind Tony, the shelves full of cleaning products on both sides, and Steve blocking his exit, Tony has no room to escape. “Um… Cap? It’s a bit claustrophobic in here. Maybe–” he attempts to inch around Steve, but the man doesn’t budge.

“Tony, you know we’re friends – have been for years – so I say this with all due love and respect, okay?” Steve says gently, registering Tony’s nod. “Okay.” He takes a deep breath before whispering furiously while looming over the smaller man, “What the hell, Tony! How could you be a part of such a dangerous, tyrannical surveillance system? What about American values, huh? Freedom? Due process? Who made S.H.I.E.L.D. judge, jury, and executioner? What gives you the right to–”

“And what gives you the right to come down on me like this?” Tony protests, his quiet rage rising with Steve’s as he more insistently pushes against his body, trying to edge around his bulk. “Besides, it was your precious American government that contracted Stark Industries to build a comprehensive defense system with the power to take out threats similar to what we experienced two years ago, or have you forgotten the literal alien centipedes that fell from the sky?”

“This isn’t the way we protect people!”

“And this isn’t how you have a civil conversation with a supposed friend!”

Steve drops his voice, attempting to calm himself as he moves himself to one side then grasps Tony by his upper arms to exchange their positions, so Tony stands with his back to the exit while Steve retreats deeper into the janitorial closet. “Just… why didn’t you come to me? You had to know it was wrong, and I thought… I thought we were friends.”

“And I thought you already knew about it,” Tony admits, his breathing a little easier now that he’s no longer trapped. “I mean… Sure, it’s a top secret project, but I thought you’d have the security clearance to at least know of its existence. You’re Captain-Fucking-America for Chrissakes.”

“You say it like that means much these days.”

“Hey now… It means something,” Tony says, reaching his undamaged fingertips up to lightly stroke Steve’s cheek. “When I was a kid, Howard never shut up about you. At first, it was aggravating,” he admits, his fingers dancing downward to tap his broad chest, and Steve’s face falls, “but then… I don’t know, I guess I always wanted to be like you. A hero. You inspired a whole generation to do better, to be better, and that has to be worth something.”

Steve places his hand over Tony’s, holding it over his heart. In such close quarters, nearly pressed up against each other, both can feel Steve’s heart quicken under Tony’s touch.

Tony looks up at him, his large eyes half-lidded under long, dark lashes. “Stop me if I’m reading this wrong,” he murmurs before leaning up to brush his lips to Steve’s.

Caught off-guard, Steve’s body becomes rigid, his back stick-straight, until Tony steps away, his face downturned and moderately embarrassed. “Sorry, I–”

Steve embraces him then, careful of his injured arm as he wraps his own around Tony, dipping his chin down to plant a passionate kiss on the fumbling man. Tony returns his ardor, leaning into the kiss, deepening it for good measure, but then, he bumps a hip into the supply shelving, breaking away from Steve with a hiss of pain.

“Sorry,” Steve apologizes, watching as Tony gingerly rubs the injury with his free hand. “Didn’t mean to knock you into the shelf. This isn’t the ideal place for something like this.”

“You’re telling me, Cap,” Tony agrees. “Look, I’m late to a meeting with Fury, but if you’re up for it, I can arrange better accommodations to continue this little… encounter of ours.”

Steve pinks, the flush pretty across his cheeks as he drops his gaze to their feet. “I’d like that.”

* * *

True to his word, Tony invites Steve over to his penthouse for a discrete hook-up. Steve skirts traffic laws, riding his motorcycle to arrive at Stark Tower in record time, and when he parks in Stark’s private underground garage, Tony is there to greet him, showing him to the service elevator they take up to his floor. If Steve had been a modern man, perhaps he would have found the level of secrecy slightly insulting, but as a man from an earlier decade, he accepts it as the way of things. How many gentlemen’s clubs had he frequented back in the day, where anonymity was not only the norm but a necessity?

As soon as they enter the foyer, Tony is on him, his hand untucking Steve’s shirt from his pants and mouth sucking a possessive mark into the skin of his neck.

“Hickies don’t stay on you, right honey?” He whispers against his skin.

“N– no,” Steve replies. He gulps as his trembling hands move over Tony’s chest and then sliding further behind to wrap around his back. With his strength, he has to be careful, to make this good for Tony so maybe – if he’s lucky – this won’t be the only time he gets to touch him like this.

“Good,” Tony says, leading him to his bedroom. He pushes Steve onto his plush mattress, climbing on top of him to attack his lips once again.

Steve props himself up on one elbow, cradling the other man’s face with his free hand before lightly thrusting his burgeoning erection up against Tony’s clothed ass hovering over him.

Tony stops, his lower body sliding up Steve’s abs to avoid his pelvis. “Um… I don’t… uh, I mean, usually I’d be all over it, but…” he frets, sounding almost fearful of saying no to Steve.

_That won’t do._

“It’s alright, Tony. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, okay?” Steve says, rubbing a comforting circle in the other man’s hip.

But Tony is still uncharacteristically nervous. “It’s just… don’t get me wrong. I’m not usually a tease, but I thought… well, the bed’s more comfortable than a broom closet, and you’re old fashioned. Maybe you wouldn’t want to… right away, so we– we could just stick to this for now?” He finishes lamely.

“Of course, Tony,” Steve reassures him. “If that’s what you want.”

So, Tony slides off to lie beside Steve, pulling him in by the shirt collar to capture his lips but keeping their lower bodies apart.

 _This is fine,_ Steve thinks. He can wait. He’ll wait as long as he has to for Tony to be ready.

* * *

It becomes a regular thing with Tony inviting Steve over to his penthouse or Tony showing up at his apartment in Brooklyn. When Steve hosts, Tony arrives incognito, dressed down with a drab hoodie pulled over his head and wearing a pair of dark sunglasses. They hang out and make out, hands slipping under clothing, feeling up each other’s bodies – the parts that aren’t off-limits anyway, like Tony’s bare chest or his nether regions – but curiously, Tony, the reportedly-incorrigible playboy, never wants to go any further. Steve is beginning to think the media has Tony Stark all wrong. If anything, he’s _more_ prudish than Steve himself.

Occasionally, Tony even stays overnight, leaving shortly after Steve’s morning shower.

“I’ve got to run, Steve,” Tony would say as he pulls on last night’s clothing.

“You sure? I was thinking I could make breakfast?” Steve would reply, trying not to sound as disappointed as he feels.

“I would love too, honey, but you know a multi-national company doesn’t run itself.”

Steve had quirked a brow at that. “Of course not, Pepper runs it.”

Pepper may run Stark Industries, but Tony is the face of the company, and Steve knows. He knows he can’t expect Tony to go public with their relationship, so he waits, grateful for their private moments, for whatever crumbs of affection Tony deigns to throw his way. Perhaps if Steve is patient and supportive and understanding, Tony will open up, let him in to his life for more than the occasional tryst and movie with takeout at home.

Much later, Tony slips into his lap once again, his lips lazy against Steve’s. “I was thinking pizza tonight.”

* * *

It’s a natural rule (as integral to the mechanisms of the universe as the Laws of Thermodynamics) that Steve Rogers can’t have nice things.

He had been born into adversity with undersized lungs and a frail body, then reborn twenty-four years later screaming, white-hot fire dancing across his nerves, bones and muscles stretching and expanding, growing beyond what nature had originally designed. His new body had allowed him freedom from a lifetime of disability and illness, but in payment of this lucky windfall, he had lost everything and everyone he ever cared about. And now? Now, he had finally managed to carve out a life for himself in this abysmal future, to claw a modicum of joy from despair. He has Tony, and he couldn’t be happier. Of course, fate, being what it is, couldn’t let him be, pushing its thumb on the scales once more.

And so it happens that as his personal life improves, his professional life tanks.

Iron Man had become S.H.I.E.L.D. enemy number one after the whole Project Insight fiasco, but the STRIKE team had not been able to get within breathing distance of him since Camp Lehigh.

The first mission after Iron Man had grounded three security helicarriers has Steve stationed at a bunker in Death Valley, where he awaits his arch-nemesis. As predicted, he shows up, and they scrap in the underground concrete facility, but when Steve pins him, his faceplate opens, revealing an empty shell and a countdown in large red digits. Acting quickly, Steve tosses the armor out, closing the heavy door behind him as it self-destructs, though the explosion is more quiet and self-contained than he had anticipated, sparking internally and fissuring any connections, rendering the shell useless but preventing any damage to the surroundings. Had Steve instead thrown himself on the armor, he may have only come away with his uniform singed and pride slightly bruised.

There are multiple cases of similar decoys sent simultaneously to several military installations across the country, many of them on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s target list but just as many not. The reason why is sobering: S.H.I.E.L.D. had moved several important assets to prevent their destruction, but Iron Man had somehow deduced their plans, attacking the new locations to wreak havoc on his desired targets. Furthermore, upon review of the attacks, S.H.I.E.L.D. ascertains that the real Iron Man must have either hit a facility upstate or an office in Florida.

Really, there can be only one conclusion to Iron Man’s attacks on recently-relocated assets. Fury is right: There has to be a leak, but where?

“Come to bed, honey,” Tony coos from underneath the thick, welcoming covers of Steve’s bed, his voice deep and sleep-soft. “I’m tired.”

“You sleep. I’m going to stay up for a while yet,” Steve replies, palming Tony’s shoulder fondly. He still has a new file detailing Iron Man’s likely next steps to review. Perhaps, when this is all over, he and Tony can go on vacation someplace warm and most-importantly, discrete. “You’ve had a long day. Don’t stay up for my sake.”

“No, Steve,” Tony grabs his arm to pull him down, registering his complaint with a low _oof!_ when Steve allows himself to land atop him. “Stay a while. It’s cold in your apartment, and I need my human space heater.”

“As you wish, sweetheart,” Steve whispers, rolling off Tony to lay beside him, holding him close, molding him to the curve of his body. “How’s that?”

“Better.”

* * *

His work may be frustrating, but at least Steve has Tony…

Until one day, he doesn’t. Steve is uncertain what went wrong. They had been cuddling on the couch, watching reruns on the History Channel when a preview for an unauthorized documentary on Tony Stark’s life comes on, promising an overview of his life up through his harrowing captivity in Afghanistan followed by his years of self-imposed hermitage in the aftermath of his escape before rising once again to public prominence as a forerunner in the fields of green energy, high-yield crops, and global security. Tony changes the channel, settling on an old infomercial for something called a slap chop.

“Is everything alright, sweetheart?” Steve prods gently. He knows about Afghanistan in an intellectual sort of way – it had been in Tony’s file when he joined S.H.I.E.L.D. – but Tony never wants to discuss that period of his life. Steve respects his privacy, of course. Sometimes, a soldier never wants to think about what they had left behind on the battlefield.

“Hm?” Tony hums. “Just… of all the pictures they had to choose from, they went with that one for the cover? It’s not even my good profile, which is three-quarters facing right,” he complains.

Steve is certain that isn’t the issue. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. It must have been a terrifying ordeal, and it’s completely understandable if you’d like to leave it in the past,” he says, holding Tony close, “but if you would prefer to talk, just know I’m here for you.” People dealt with trauma in all sorts of ways, and Tony is managing well, all things considered.

Tony kisses him then, soft and slow but growing in intensity until Steve is hovering over him, Tony’s thighs on either side of Steve’s hips and his erection pressing against the space between.

Steve draws back. “Sorry…” he says, slipping out from between Tony’s legs to sit upright on the couch, his hands on his knees. “I’m– I just got carried away. I know you don’t like that.” He tries not to think about why that might be.

“Hey,” Tony leans over, holding Steve’s face in his hands. “It’s alright, Steve. I’m not going to hold it against you.”

“I know you’re not ready,” and maybe Tony never will be, but this? This is enough for Steve. It has to be, because nothing can ever be worth sacrificing Tony’s sense of personal safety and comfort. “I mean, I know you used to, but ever since… well…” and now Steve is fumbling, trying to backtrack.

_Open mouth; insert foot._

Tony cottons on to his meaning almost immediately. “I’ve only been with one person since Afghanistan,” he says softly, catching Steve’s attention. “We’ve been off and on for years… off for now anyway, and this time is very likely permanent.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve sympathizes, even as his heart aches.

_Would Tony leave him for this perennial partner to whom he always seemed to return?_

But Tony simply scoffs, “Don’t be. She deserves better. I don’t know if anyone has told you, but I’m a disaster at relationships.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know. I’ve never really had a relationship before,” Steve admits, carefully looking away from Tony.

Tony’s head snaps back so fast, Steve worries the man may have suffered from whiplash. “What? Impossible.”

“I’m serious. You’re the first,” Steve tells him, and for once in his life, Tony is at a loss for words, so Steve explains, “There was a woman. Once. We were supposed to go dancing when the war was over, but… well, let’s just say I overslept our date by sixty-six years.” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

The math still does not compute for Tony. “…Haven’t you been awake for almost five? It’s high time you put yourself out there.”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

Tony is silent at that, then: “…You deserve better, too. You deserve someone who can give you more, someone who is willing to take you out on public dates instead of… instead of whatever this is.”

“It’s fine. This is fine,” Steve assures him.

But Tony simply shakes his head. “It’s really not,” he insists, “It’s not 1945 anymore, Steve. You shouldn’t have to be anyone’s dirty little secret. Don’t settle for less than you’re worth.”

“Tony… If you’re not ready, I can wait. I’m good at waiting.”

_And isn’t that the understatement of the century?_

Tony sighs. “You don’t get it. There’s nothing to wait for. There can never be more. This? It’s all I’ve got for you, all I can give, not just at this time but forever. I’m… I’ve never been a good man, but I’m an even shittier boyfriend. Just ask Pepper–”

_Really? His CEO?_

“–She’ll give you a fair assessment of my performance as a romantic partner, and it will be justifiably brutal,” he finishes.

“…I’m not asking your ex for tips,” Steve says through grit teeth.

“See, this is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to my terrible relationship ideas.”

 _This is getting ridiculous._ “Look, if you don’t want to be with me anymore, I can take a hint. You don’t have to go to such lengths to drive me away. I’ll go.”

Steve almost expects resistance but is devastated when Tony concedes much too easily, standing to leave. “I’m sorry Steve. Really, I am.”

“I’m sorry too, Tony,” he says, his face falling as something inside him shrivels and twists in knots. “You– you take care of yourself, alright?”

“Right back at you, big guy.”

And with that, Tony collects his coat and exits Steve’s apartment, leaving him on the couch, confused and heartbroken. _That’s really it, the end,_ or so Steve thinks.

* * *

Fortunately, Steve and Tony do not work together directly. As a consultant, his appearance at S.H.I.E.L.D. is sporadic at best, and it becomes even more so after the dissolution of their covert fling. Tony manages to largely avoid Steve, with other agents commenting that Steve had just missed the billionaire more times than could be coincidence. It’s not that anyone knew about their relationship per se, but they had been friendly at work, and people had assumed their acquaintanceship contained a certain level of camaraderie.

“Suit up,” Fury himself tells him one day several weeks later, “You’ve got a mission in ten.”

Steve cants his head in confusion. He must really be out of it if he had missed something like that. “I didn’t get any notification. Mission report?”

“Details are on the Quinjet heading out,” Fury clarifies. “This is a classified operation. Orders from the top. No prior notice, nothing in the system, not even I was made aware of the unfolding situation until today. We believe Iron Man’s next move is Siberia, though for what is unclear. It’s an old base predating the fall of the USSR. Whatever assets had been stored there have been moved to a secondary location. You will be stationed there to intercept Iron Man’s attack while the STRIKE team led by Agent Rumlow guards the asset in case Iron Man catches wind of the new location.”

It’s a bid to blindside the mole – Steve is certain of it – and if Iron Man still manages to foresee _this_ , then that really narrows down the identity of the leak to someone above even Fury’s paygrade.

“Eight minutes, Cap.”

“On it, sir.”

* * *

Steve hasn’t been this cold since…

He tries not to think about it, but it’s difficult when he’s stuck guarding an empty Siberian bunker by himself, waiting for a man who might not even show.

Story of his life, really.

Steve paces to keep warm, to keep alert. He had already toured the bunker, taken stock of the (lack of) supplies and the angles and dimensions of the various spaces and corridors. He now stands in what appears to be the central room with vaulted ceilings he assumes had housed the asset(s), as per the instructions in the mission file he had read on the flight over. Whoever had picked this location to ambush Iron Man had been clever. It’s enclosed, mostly underground, the walls and ceiling made of concrete poured over reinforced steel with minimal ingresses and exits. Iron Man will be trapped, unable to blast off at the first sign of trouble. Steve is ready for him.

Iron man just needs to show.

Steve hears him before he sees him, his heavy footprints, the mechanical whirr that always both preceded him and followed in his wake. Steve’s shield is up just as Iron Man appears, his gauntlet raised and repulsors glowing.

“Captain,” he states. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Steve flings his shield, following close after to attack when Iron Man dodges the projectile. He catches it on the rebound, bringing it down just as Iron Man counters, ripping it from Steve’s grip to throw it clattering to the ground. From there, it’s an old-fashioned fist fight between man and machine, Iron Man’s armor proving a match to Steve’s biological enhancements. They attack, block, and parry until Steve rolls back to pick up his shield along the way, wielding it like a bludgeon on the return. For a long minute, Steve appears to have the upper hand, but Iron Man catches his shield in mid-thrust, throwing it away once again and aiming a blast to Steve’s midsection, crashing him to the floor. Wobbly and exhausted, Steve’s down, but not out. He darts in low to trip Iron Man then lifts him up to slam him onto the concrete floor. Iron Man grunts – the first human thing Steve has ever known him to do – but he is already on him, delivering punch after punch to his face plate. It barely makes a dent.

Steve must know who is behind the mask, so he picks up his discarded shield, aiming the sharp edge into Iron Man’s face for several undefended volleys, warping the metal enough to allow Steve to pry the entire helmet from the main body with one hand revealing–

Tony Stark’s face, blood streaming from his nose and multiple lacerations around his temple and bruised forehead where the shield must have pinched the metal of his faceplate into his flesh.

He stares up at Steve, snarling and bewildered. Overcome with rage, with betrayal, Steve raises his shield a final time. Tony brings up his hands, attempting to protect his face and vulnerable neck from the killing blow, both men knowing any defensive act would prove futile, but Steve hesitates. He aims lower, burying the edge of his shield into the bright power source glowing in the center of Iron Man’s chest, breaking his heart just as Tony had done to his. The arc reactor glows blue then fades, the whirr silencing as the light dims. Iron Man is only a man now, a mere mortal, so Steve shakily dismounts Tony, stumbling on his feet as he stands and dislodges the shield – the shield Tony’s father had made for him – from his ex-lover’s chest.

Tony must have activated a localized EMP along with the suit’s normal self-destruction sequence because not only does Steve hear the tell-tale fizzle of an Iron Man suit quietly destroying itself, but Steve’s own comms are fried.

“This is Rogers reporting in,” Steve tries, tapping the dead comm.

“That’s not going to work, Cap,” Tony tells him from his prone position, his voice cold and detached as if they had never been anything more than enemies, than Captain America and Iron Man. “Both it and the suit are useless now. The only way S.H.I.E.L.D. is going to get my Iron Man tech is if you bring me in alive.”

“That was always the plan,” Steve says, hefting Tony’s limp form up in a fireman’s carry to take both him and the ruined suit to the Quinjet. It’s heavier than if he had chosen to pry the plate metal from Tony’s body, but Steve has no idea what the man wears underneath. It’s bitterly cold outside after all, and the armor must offer some protection from the elements.

Once they make it inside the Quinjet and Steve turns on the heater, Steve does remove his armor, but Tony flinches when he wrenches off the first piece, turning away and squeezing his eyes shut. Steve assumes he much have pinched him, so he resolves to move more carefully, even if the man didn’t deserve such consideration from him, not after everything he’d done.

The universe has a way of balancing out. Steve caught Iron Man, but he lost–

“Don’t,” Tony whispers when Steve feels around his hip, looking for a latch or some finger-hold to take it off.

Steve withdraws his touch. “You can remove it yourself, but the suit’s coming off,” he says sternly.

Tony removes the remainder of his armor, and now he’s hunched over before Steve, in a black tanktop and jeans, shivering despite the heat. Steve handcuffs him to a chair bolted in place, leaving to retrieve a blanket which he drapes over Tony’s shoulders.

Tony hugs the cloth to himself, not quite looking at his captor. “…Thanks.”

Steve returns to the front without a word, switching on the radio.

“Charlie-Alpha-Zero, this is Sierra Charlie Four-Six-Nine, Report,” a S.H.I.E.L.D. dispatcher requests. “Did you make contact with the India-Mike-One, over?”

“Sierra Charlie Four-Six-Nine. Charlie-Alpha-Zero, that is an affirmative. Over,” Steve replies.

“Is the subject known to you, over?”

Tony directs his gaze at Steve, fear in his eyes, and…

Steve can’t do it. He can’t say Tony’s name, not yet anyway. “I’m bringing him in,” he checks the time, “in 0300 hours to Naval Base Guam. Out.”

Steve sets the controls to autopilot, then returns to deal with the proverbial elephant in the room.

“So…” he begins. He doesn’t know how much is left to say. They only have three hours left. It is obvious now how Iron Man had known about S.H.I.E.L.D.’s movements and countermeasures, who had been the source of the leak, but Steve must be a masochist because he needs confirmation. “I let you inside my apartment. There were files. Locked up of course, but you…”

Tony nods, and the bottom falls out of Steve’s stomach. All this time, Tony had been using him for information, so he could carry out his criminal activities always three steps ahead of the competition.

_In this line of work, you can’t trust anyone._

He sighs, pinching his eyes closed. “Was any of it real?”

“Does it matter? If I told you I really did care for you, would you believe me at this juncture?”

Steve is silent at that.

“Thought so,” Tony mumbles. He rearranges the blanket around his body, fluffing the folds around his neck to sink in deeper.

* * *

They’re approximately two hours into their journey when Tony calls out, “Hey Cap, could I get a glass of water? I’m thirsty.”

“We’ll be there soon.”

“I know there will be some at our destination, but you’d be surprised how hard it is to swallow when you’re being water-boarded,” Tony says flatly. “C’mon, Steve. We were friends once upon a time.”

“We weren’t,” Steve replies. How dare Tony use their bogus emotional connection to extract favors from him? But still…

He gets up to retrieve a bottle of water, walking over to hold it to Tony’s lips.

“Thanks,” Tony drinks for a moment before spitting it back out at Steve’s face and kicking him between the legs to drop him to the floor. Tony quickly stands, shrugging off the blanket to reveal he had picked the lock on his handcuffs while hidden underneath.

And really, that’s what he gets for being nice, Steve thinks with some anger.

Tony jumps over him, but having recovered, Steve grabs on, tripping him as well. Tony kicks him off, bringing his boot hard against Steve’s face, breaking his nose in a gush of blood to hustle away and up. He recalibrates the controls, sabotaging the autopilot before Steve is on him again, wrestling him to the floor, but then their entire world dips, flipping them end over end to land on the windshield towards the front of the craft, snapping off levers and pushing an unknown number of buttons in their struggle, sending the Quinjet into an irreversible nosedive.

Tony claws his way to a passenger seat to strap himself in as does Steve. Both brace for impact.

In his final moments preceding the crash, Steve looks over at Tony, still miraculously conscious, his face distorted with panic and fear as they hit the water, cracking open the shell and quickly filling the fuselage until both are under water. Unable to unbuckle his restraints, Steve breaks them open, swimming over the short distance to do the same for Tony, but he can’t find an exit, the dark blue surrounding him is too disorienting, his insides frozen at the familiar scene. The ocean is warmer than it had been when he had crashed the Valkyrie into Arctic waters, and Steve wonders with no ice to preserve him, will this finally be the last of Captain America?

But mostly, he regrets not telling Tony how he felt the last time they had been together, warm and content and happy, cradling the man he thought he–


	2. Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve survives the crash and washes up on a nearby deserted island. He sets up camp near an aloe grove to await rescue. However, when Tony resurfaces to steal some of his supplies, Steve becomes enraged, wrestling him to the ground to take him into custody. He can’t let Iron Man get away, not now that he finally has him within grasp.

Steve comes to while violently coughing. His lungs are on fire as saltwater is expelled from his nose and mouth. He squints, his eyes blinded bright white from the overhead sun, but a darkened void in the middle flees just as suddenly as he registers its presence along with the accompanying pressure on his chest and arms – human touch, he realizes later. By the time he’s curled to one side and propped up on an elbow, rubbing the ache in his chest as his coughing subsides and vision focuses to sharpened clarity, he can just make out Tony’s figure disappearing into the tree line, the surrounding brush and branches rustling in his wake.

He rolls over until he’s supported on both arms, head dropped between and facing the wet sand.

He’s an idiot. How could he have been so stupid, so lenient, to such a startling degree as to let Iron Man escape just because he happened to be–

 _Stop me if I’m reading this wrong,_ Tony had whispered all those months ago right before he kissed him the very first time.

But it was Steve who had read the situation wrong, horribly so. And now, Iron Man – no, Tony Stark – had slipped through his fingers once again, all because Steve had taken one look at those large brown eyes and couldn’t fathom the man would exploit his feelings for the sake of his criminal enterprise. Tony clearly never cared about him. Instead, he had strung him along in order to access classified information on the Iron Man investigation, and Steve had been so blind and desperate, had wanted him so much, that he ignored all the red flags for months. For all that is good and holy, he had even assumed Tony Stark, notorious man-whore extraordinaire, was _shy_.

He is such an idiot.

Steve manages to stand, wobbly on his feet, and surveys his surroundings. They had been flying over the Pacific Ocean when the Quinjet went down, heading towards Guam. They are likely on one of the other Pacific islands comprising Micronesia or perhaps on one of thousands that made up the Philippines. It’s hard to say, but it had a good chance of being uninhabited. Steve tries not to panic. Global positioning and tracking technology had advanced a lot in the decades since Amelia Earhart had disappeared while flying over the same region. S.H.I.E.L.D. will find them in due time. Steve only has to survive until then.

While trapped on a deserted island with the arch-nemesis who had used him.

Who had caused irreparable damage to American interests.

Who had marooned them both here.

…And who had inexplicably dragged him to shore and stayed with him until he regained consciousness. Steve unlatches his uniform, finding bruising at the center of his nipple line, indicative of live-saving chest compressions.

Steve shouldn’t read too much into it. He had snapped Tony’s restraints off when their craft was sinking. Perhaps in the moments that followed, Tony had instinctively returned the favor, a type of quid-pro-quo Steve can’t hope to rely on in the future.

 _I guess I always wanted to be like you. A hero,_ Tony’s voice whispers from the depths of his memory.

No, he can’t afford to think like that. Tony Stark is a liar; Iron Man is the enemy; and Steve would do well to remember it.

And so, he sets about collecting all the debris that had washed up on shore – some metal pieces of various sizes and plastic containers among other items normally discarded as trash which may prove critical to his continued survival – dumping it inside some thick plastic sheeting to be folded and taken with him. He had lost his shield, but it is no matter. When S.H.I.E.L.D. picks him up, they can scan the crash site and hopefully recover it… _if the waves haven’t washed it out further to sea,_ Steve thinks with a touch of dread. Either way, Captain America will carry on, a national icon with or without his signature weapon.

But first, Steve Rogers needs to survive.

* * *

The most important items to secure in such a situation are as follows (in order):

_One: A source of drinking water_

Steve traverses the island, the land becoming rocky and treacherous, cresting into mountains towards the center. There may be pools of water at the peak, perhaps even a thin waterfall, but it won’t be within easy access. Steve needs to stay close to the shore and build a signal fire as well as an SOS to alert nearby boats or planes to his presence.

So, he keeps towards the edge, where trees and brush are plentiful, searching for a water source until he finds an outcropping of coconut trees beside an aloe grove on the flat, craggy end of the island where the land cuts around a shallow, gentle bay. He uses the sharp edge of a piece of collected scrap metal to crack open a coconut, drinking directly from the source to quench his thirst but remains concerned about the limited availability (considering his greater need due to larger body mass and quicker metabolism). In the end, he supplements this supply by building several solar water stills out of the plastic sheeting and containers he had collected earlier. He positions them along the edge of trees where the sand gives way to soil, filling in the gaps below with leaves and weighing down the plastic sheet with small pebbles to draw the condensation towards the center where it may drop into the provided container.

_Two: Shelter_

Having established a water source, he then constructs a lean-to shelter against a nearby tree from branches and fallen coconut fronds, securing the smaller branches to the larger with rope made of woven bark. It’s no Ritz Carlton, but it will do for an occupancy of one.

_Three: Fire_

Now this is where it gets tricky.

Steve may have been able to collect plenty of dry tinder from the underbrush, but he doesn’t have matches or flint nor does he have anything to concentrate sunlight onto the dried grass to catch fire.

No. He will have to do it the old fashioned way: By rubbing two sticks together. So, he collects a long, moderately wide stick, using a smaller slice of metal to cut off any small branches and carve a groove longitudinally into the side. Using a smaller dull-edged stick, he plows into the groove as fast as he can at an acute angle, hoping to create a spark to ignite the tinder he placed off to the side. However, try as he might, he can’t get anything started, and he ends up driving his first plow clear through the groove, splintering both.

He sighs, starting the process over with a new set, working the plow once again into the cut groove, trying over and over again for what feels like hours. A couple times, he becomes overexcited when he produces a small amount of smoke, but he stops too soon before the ember can establish itself, extinguishing his work before he could light anything. It’s hard, frustrating work, made all the more taxing by its repetitive nature.

Eventually, painstakingly, through much trial and error varying speed and angle and types of wood, Steve is able to coax to life a small ember, which he successfully introduces to tinder, sparking a larger flame that he finally transfers to his kindling.

He feeds it more wood, with pieces large enough to last several hours through the night.

_Four: Food_

After draining the initial coconut of its fluid, Steve had used his metal proto-knife to scrap the inside, extracting its tender nearly-tasteless flesh, but he knows man (especially one as enhanced as he is) cannot live on coconut alone. He requires more protein if he is to keep up his strength.

Unfortunately, by the time he manages to build his fire, it is already edging towards night. He will have to try in the morning to gather more food on the island, to fish or lay traps in an attempt to catch something a little more substantial. So Steve beds down on a bed of pointed coconut fronds in his shelter, trying to ignore his hunger pangs, until he falls into a fitful sleep.

He dreams of Tony laughing, wrapping his arms around Steve as he tries to teach him how to dance in his living room to something slow and sweet, in the time before Steve learned it had all been a lie.

* * *

Steve wakes at the crack of dawn. He checks his water stills finding a couple inches of distilled water in each. He drinks one then adds more fuel to the fire before fashioning a spear by sharpening a long skinny stick with his makeshift knife. Once finished, he sets out into the shallows, standing still with his spear poised until he sees a flash of silver draw near. He throws it, but the motion startles the fish, and he comes up empty.

 _It’s okay,_ Steve tells himself. He can always try again.

Approximately twenty-three failed attempts later, that sentiment becomes much harder to swallow. He begins to think his grumbling stomach is scaring off the fish, so he gives up, returning to his campsite to try another method. Perhaps he can dig into the soil and rustle up some bait (or just eat the bait directly if he gets desperate; protein is protein, right?), but as he approaches camp, he comes across an infuriating scene.

It’s Tony, bundling together a cache of metal debris and coconuts alongside several fleshy leaves of aloe, _stealing_ from Steve.

Angered from the crash, from his inability to catch breakfast, from the entire chain of events kicked off by the man currently picking through his stash and compromising his survival, Steve charges him, spear in hand. Tony turns, his eyes growing wide as saucers. He rolls away as Steve comes upon him, flipping onto his feet to take off running, trying to reach the cover of the trees, but Steve throws the spear, striking the dirt in front of Tony, who instinctively backs away from the weapon, allowing Steve precious seconds to catch up to him. He bowls him over, trying to wrestle him to the dirt, but Tony is smaller, quicker and more agile as he manages to duck out, turning to run instead towards the fire pit and the cache of stolen supplies he had been amassing.

He aims to pick up a piece of sharpened metal, but Steve is already on him, pinning him to the ground. He catches Tony’s attempted knee to his groin before Tony throws a handful of sand in his eyes. Steve reflexively closes his eyes in time and turns away, allowing Tony to shuffle back, scooting away, but Steve lunges, tackling him once more. In the scuffle that follows, one of them – Steve is uncertain who, but he swears it’s Tony’s fault regardless – knocks over his pile of kindling, disrupting the fire Steve had worked so hard to stoke.

Steve tries to save the flames, but Tony swipes his foot up and around, kicking Steve in his attempt to flee while simultaneously extinguishing any remnants of the fire.

Enraged, Steve grapples with Tony, pressing him face-first into the sand one final time, tearing his tank top in the process. Tony struggles, trying to push Steve off, but Steve has his arms locked behind him, his side pressed to Tony’s back and pelvis, and legs spread for leverage.

“You put out my fire,” Steve accuses, his voice low and deadly as he twists Tony’s arm a little tighter. Tony grunts, the sound high with a twinge of pain. Steve loosens his grip a touch but leans his body weight more onto Tony’s back, immobilizing him. “You aren’t getting away this time. You’re going to pay for what you did.”

If Steve has to fashion his own rope from the buckles and straps of his uniform to restrain Tony, then that’s what he must do until S.H.I.E.L.D. arrives to collect them both.

“You can’t!” Tony thrashes underneath Steve’s body, trying to wriggle out as much as he can. “You’re supposed to be the hero!”

And isn’t that always like a villain, invoking the hero’s sense of honor and fair play to try and level the playing field while using every trick in the book to gain an advantage?

“You’ve been a thorn in my side since before all this, and I’m going to stop you,” Steve tells him as Tony renews his struggles, trying to buck him off.

“But–”

“Be still!” He presses down on Tony to the point of pain.

Tony makes a muffled yelp before acquiescing, “Alright!” Steve lets up a little, and Tony’s voice grows small. “Alright… I- I concede. Just… just give me ten minutes.”

_Really?_

“Do you think I’m an idiot? No!” No way is Steve going to give Iron Man a ten-minute head start, not when he has finally captured him. What possible incentive would he have to do such a thing?

“Cap–”

“I said no. I’m not giving you a chance to escape.”

Tony sucks in a breath, his tone rough and shaky with fear. “I won’t. I swear I’m not trying to get out of this.” Steve doubts that considering the way Tony is deliberately trying not to eye his makeshift knife a couple of feet from them. The man is a villain and a liar through and through, but he continues to bargain with Steve, “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll make it better for you. Make it so it’s not just a one-time thing, you know?”

_Make what better for him?_

Steve narrows his eyes, his grip still firm on Tony. “What are you talking about?”

“That plant you’ve got over there?” Tony tries to cant his head in the direction of the spiny succulents, but the motion is restricted considering his current position. “That’s aloe. Slice it open along the long edge, scoop out the slime. It’s good for sunburns. Soothing. But it’s also a decent lube in a pinch. If I could have some, I could take you. But if you do me dry, I won’t last. You’re… you’re too big, too strong. I know you have your orders, but I don’t want to go out like that. You find me attractive, I know you do.” Tony’s voice falters, his body remaining taut as his eyes close. “You’re going to be here a while, and you– you want a cock sleeve that’s more than single use, don’t you?”

Steve’s first instinct is to disengage, but he can’t trust Tony not to run, so instead, he rushes to disabuse Tony of such a notion. “I- I’m – Christ, Tony – I’m not going to rape you. I’m taking you into custody. You do have the right to remain silent, which I suggest you take advantage of so–”

Some of the tension leaves Tony, but his body remains rigid underneath Steve. “Yeah no, when S.H.I.E.L.D. gets a hold of me, none of that is going to matter.”

“I suppose not. They’ll make you talk.”

“Perhaps. Or just kill me outright. Wouldn’t be the first time they snuffed out a Stark before finding out what he knew,” he mutters, “Probably the last though, considering I’m the only one left.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know,” Tony sounds vaguely insulted. “First that performance over the fallout from Project Insight and now this? You expect me to believe you know nothing? High clearance asset like you? Was there at the beginning of S.H.I.E.L.D. and then miraculously found and defrosted just when they needed you to deal with Iron Man?” he snorts. “What I can’t figure out, even after all this time, is whether you’re the real deal or a plant, maybe a clone. I’m not stupid, and I’m not going to live long enough to tell anyone else, so humor me, in our last moments together: Who are you?”

_Tony must be insane._

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I’m Steve Rogers. We’ve known each other for years.”

Tony sounds skeptical. “ _The_ Steve Rogers, born on July 4, 1918, to Joseph and Sara Rogers? Joined Project Rebirth in 1942 to become an invincible beefcake and punch Nazis? _That_ Steve Rogers?”

“Yes.”

“Impossible. The real Captain America would never work for S.H.I.E.L.D,” he says with certainty.

“And why not?”

“Because of Operation Paperclip. Obviously.”

To be fair to Tony, Steve did have his reservations at the time due to that exact program. “…I wasn’t a fan of it when I heard, but it’s over. All of them are dead. There aren’t any active Nazi scientists employed by the American government, much less S.H.I.E.L.D. Besides, your father–”

“Howard was working on a super soldier serum, trying to replicate what Doc Erskine did with the real Steve Rogers. Was close, too, and then on December 16, 1991, he was assassinated, and Mom was taken out,” Tony says, with more than a little heat. “She hadn’t been a target… just wrong place, wrong time. Collateral damage–”

“It was a car accident. I saw your file.” Steve is firm but sympathetic. The sudden death of his entire family must have broken something inside Tony, fractured his mind and better judgment. In his grief, he must have constructed an elaborate lie – a fairy tale complete with demons and conspiracy theories – to explain the tragedy. Steve slips off Tony, allowing him to sit up but keeping a firm grip on one wrist to pull him back if need be.

“I told you I’m not stupid, so don’t insult my intelligence,” Tony insists, dusting off his clothing with his free hand. He tries to hold his ruined shirt together at the strap, but gives up when it proves pointless, pressing down instead to paste it to his sweaty skin. He props up a knee, bending it to his chest for a little more coverage, and… okay, his flexibility is more distracting than it should be. “They were murdered.”

His conspiracy theory is an understandable coping mechanism, but Steve mustn’t coddle him. “Howard was an alcoholic–”

“True, but he hadn’t been drinking that night.”

“He hit an ice patch–”

“That somehow asphyxiated Mom with human hands? Must have been one hell of an ice patch,” Tony mumbles, running his free hand through his hair. “There were… bruises around her neck. Fingers. Became more prominent after the embalming process. So, I dug and dug and dug, and that’s when I found it.”

“Found what?”

“You’re going to make me say it?”

“I’m just curious how deep this delusion goes,” Steve says flatly. “I believe insanity is still a legitimate defense these days.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. _is_ HYDRA, and if you really are the real deal, then I feel sorry for you, _Steve Rogers_.” Steve can practically hear the air quotes in Tony’s tone.

“You really are crazy.”

Tony springs forward, towards the knife he had been eyeing since he first made his offer, but Steve anticipates the move, blocking him easily and pinning Tony once again with his bulk.

Tony grunts under Steve, his breath quickening as he tries to struggle but finds the effort wasted. “Now that you know I know, do me the courtesy of making it quick. For- for old time’s sake.” Then he closes his eyes and braces himself for the fatal blow, for death itself.

“I’m not going to kill you.” Steve resists the urge to shake him. “You’re sick; you need professional help!”

Tony cracks open an eye. “…I have to say, you’re still pretty spry for an older fellow… You ever question the official story? Sixty-six years on ice, but here you are defrosted, perfectly preserved and not looking a day over twenty-seven?” He points out before muttering, “Sign me up for some of that.”

“You don’t want to wake up almost seventy years in the future,” Steve scoffs. “Trust me. Everyone you’ve ever known or cared about will be dead or near enough. Nothing will be as it used to be. And the only guy who you think might get it – might even be worth pursuing – turns out to be goddamn certifiable.” He doesn’t even try to suppress the disappointment bleeding into his tone.

“Maybe you really do think you’re him,” Tony concedes, “If so, I really am sorry.”

“I remember growing up in Brooklyn so small and weak, I could barely breathe sometimes, and I would still take on bullies twice my size. Bucky…” Steve stumbles over the name, “Bucky would pull them off me. I remember how much it burned when Erskine and your father made me. I remember fighting Johann Schmidt before he was Red Skull, and I remember… I remember Bucky falling. I remember how it felt to freeze in the Arctic, to want to breathe so badly but having no air all over again, the desperation… the cold… I _am_ Steve Rogers.”

While not unaffected by Steve’s purported experiences, Tony is dismissive as to their authenticity. “Planted core memories. Makes the lie more believable.”

“I remember waking up, too. S.H.I.E.L.D. had the wrong game playing on the radio. If I was a plant, surely they wouldn’t have implanted the memory of me going to that very same game,” Steve points out.

Now that gives Tony pause. “…That’s sloppy. I would never have made that mistake,” he says. He’s silent for a beat then asks, “You ever wonder, Cap, about the targets they have you go after?”

“Pirates? Terrorists?” Steve lists off, “You?”

“Well yeah, there are those, but what about the scientists, the foreign governments, and then there are all those weapons they made with that alien tech from the Chitauri invasion three years back?” Tony says, “You know about the weapons, don’t you?”

But Steve is silent, and that is answer enough for Tony.

“Really? Hm, that’s interesting,” Tony muses. “I’m sure if you start asking questions, they’ll make you disappear as well. Maybe another ‘accident,’ or they’ll put you back on ice and rewrite your memories. I don’t know. HYDRA will do anything to stay hidden.”

“Let’s try this _again_ ,” Steve says in lieu of a reply. “If I let you up, are you going to try to make a go for a weapon or run?”

“Supposing I agree to your terms, are you going to believe me?”

Steve sighs, but he proceeds to make his case. Tony may be delusional, but he’s not completely unreasonable. His madness isn’t without a certain logic, polluted though it may be, and Steve can’t keep him pinned forever. “We’re trapped here, Tony. There’s no one else, and if we don’t work together, there’s a good chance neither of us will survive. So… until rescue arrives, I propose a truce.”

“I don’t see how either of us has much choice,” Tony allows.

Steve nods, sliding off Tony. “We work together. We survive.” He extends his hand for a shake to seal the deal.

Tony eyes it for a long moment before accepting.

“Great… so, first thing’s first: We need to rebuild the fire you put out,” Steve says, standing to reassemble the kindling.

“The fire _I_ put out?” Tony repeats for emphasis. “Excuse you; if anything, that was a team effort–” Steve quirks a brow, giving him a dirty look, “–but being the magnanimous team player I am, I’ll be nice and restart the fire,” Tony finishes.

“You’re welcome to try. It took me hours to get the first one going,” Steve says flatly, looking around to find where his handmade fire plow had disappeared to in the scuffle.

“That’s because you don’t have the right firestarter,” Tony replies. With a flourish, he fishes out a familiar-looking compass from his pocket.

Steve stares at it – his own compass from the war containing the picture of the only women he had ever loved – and snarls. “Where did you get that?” He stalks over and snatches it from Tony.

Tony holds up his hands, palms out in placation. “Hey, I salvaged it from the wreckage. It was the only thing I could grab before you woke up. You got all the metal debris and plastic sheeting, and I got the compass,” he reasons. “I’d say you got the better end of that deal.”

Steve opens it, relieved to find the photo undamaged. He supposes that is to be expected. It had survived worse than Tony Stark after all.

“You want to tell me why you have a picture of Aunt Peg in there?” Tony asks, his tone carefully nonchalant.

 _Aunt Peg?_ And Steve wonders all over again how the child of a S.H.I.E.L.D. founder who was also presumably close to a second founder grew up to become Iron Man? He supposes grief is one hell of a motivator. Still…

“Don’t tell me Colonel Phillips was your godfather.” _Was Tony raised by the entire S.H.I.E.L.D. triumvirate?_

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never met the man. He was like what? Sixty-five during World War II? He had already passed by the time I was born.” When he really put his mind to it, Tony sure knew how to make Steve feel old. “Uncle Danny was my godfather and you know, Aunt Peg’s _husband_.”

 _Great. He has a name,_ Steve thinks. If he didn’t know any better, he thought he might have even detected a hint of jealousy in Tony’s voice.

Good thing Steve knows better. “She wasn’t married when I knew her,” he says instead, snapping the compass shut.

“I’m gonna need that if you want me to start a fire,” Tony reaches for the compass. “I just need the glass over the photo–”

Steve pockets it. “You’re not taking apart my compass, not when I have a perfectly good fire plow–”

“For Chrissakes, Steve! I’ll put it back together after. I’m just going to borrow it a little so we don’t die of exposure.”

So Steve relinquishes the compass. Tony carefully jimmies the glass out, cracking the seal around the edge – “You can have it re-sealed when we’re rescued” – and uses it to focus the sun’s rays on some dried grass before blowing it alive and transferring the flame to the kindling Steve had piled up. He pops the glass back in place and tosses it to Steve, only slightly worse for wear.

“Now, was that so hard?” Tony says with all the sensitivity of a punched card.

Yeah, this partnership is off to a rocky start, but miraculously and rather bizarrely, it is becoming exponentially worse at an impressive rate.

“Do you have anything to eat around here? I’m starving,” he complains while Steve’s stomach gives a sympathetic gurgle.

And it’s all Tony’s fault.

* * *

Tony’s shirt is mostly ruined. Despite his anger towards the man, Steve doesn’t want him to burn to a crisp.

“I’m Italian, honey. I don’t burn; I tan,” Tony had told him when Steve had expressed his concern. With his skin sandy and mostly dry, the tank top doesn’t hold up quite as well. He pinches the torn ends all the same, unsuccessfully trying to tie them together for cover while the neckline shifts low, revealing the beginnings of extensive scarring peaking through. Steve has never seen Tony with his shirt off, has never even felt the skin of his chest, and now that he watches Tony fidget with his tank top, he thinks he understands why.

“Let me help you with that.”

So Tony turns around, pulling the shirt over his head and throwing it behind his shoulder at Steve, who tries to stitch it back together by interlacing a thin strip of bark through the weave of his tank top and pulling it closed. It doesn’t quite work, the bark splintering instead of bending, so he surrenders his own undershirt to Tony, tossing it atop his head.

“You sure?” but Tony is already pulling it on, seemingly grateful for the cover. “You’ll turn into a lobster.”

“I heal fast,” Steve points out. “Plus, I always have my uniform.” Of course, the uniform is uncomfortable and sweltering with the wet heat hanging heavy in the air, but Steve will survive.

Besides, the greater concern is his caloric intake, which is less than ideal.

“Give that to me,” Tony says, holding his hand out for the spear. He rolls his eyes when Steve hesitates. “Look, if I had wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have bothered pulling your perfect ass to shore.”

“Yeah, about that…” Steve begins.

“Just hand me the spear, or let me use your knife to make my own.”

In the end, Tony is forced to sharpen his own spear, grumbling all the while about distrustful golden boys.

He and Steve wade into the shallows, but instead of staying waist-deep in water, Tony swims over to a rock large enough for the two of them to stand upon. Tony takes the high ground with Steve crouching low to watch the waves.

“The trick is not to startle the fish,” Tony says, surveying the surrounding waters and using his stick to pull in some algae floats and seaweed to drape on the lee of the stone, shielded from the waves lapping the shore.

_Well duh._

“And also to account for light refraction through the surface of the water,” he continues.

_The what now?_

Steve doesn’t ask, but Tony must love to hear himself talk, because he clarifies, “The water bends light. If you throw where the fish appears to be, you’ll miss, unless the fish happens to be very broad.”

But knowing the theory and executing it are two different things, so when the seaweed attracts their prey to them, Tony tries to spear a fish, but is unsuccessful when he doesn’t move quite fast enough. Steve watches him fail for a while, observing the angle of the spear entering the water and its distance from the fish, before offering, “Let me try.”

“Alright, Cap, but if this is a bust, we’re going to be living on coconuts for the time being,” Tony sits with his legs crossed while Steve takes his turn. “If we’re lucky, we may catch a parrot, and wouldn’t that be a treat.”

“Sh!” Steve whispers. “You’re scaring the fish.”

He applies the lessons from Tony’s failures, adjusting the trajectory to account for the slight angle, and on the fourth attempt, he manages to spear a fish, dropping it into Tony’s lap.

“A little small,” Tony mumbles.

Steve frowns, his brow crinkling. “I’ll get more, just be quiet,” he admonishes him. And so it happens that within an hour, Steve manages to spear three more, prompting only minimal commentary from the peanut gallery.

“Okay, so… when we make our way back to shore, just be wary of sharks. It’s pretty shallow here, but we’ve just chummed the waters, so… yeah, be careful,” Tony warns him as they step off the rocks. He carries the fish impaled on his spear while Steve keeps an eye on their surroundings, but they return to shore with no incident.

Unsurprisingly, Tony turns out to be useless at cooking, so Steve shows him how to use the makeshift knife to scrap off the scales and gut the fish before spearing them near the fire to roast, turning them periodically to cook them evenly until the outside is crispy and the flesh tender and flaky.

When Tony bites into his first fish, he nearly moans. “I’ve frequented some of the best, most highly-rated restaurants in the city, and I think this is the best thing I’ve eaten. Ever.”

“Everything always tastes better if you haven’t eaten in a while.” Steve knows from experience.

“So, you’re saying hunger is the best spice?”

Steve simply hums, taking a drink from an empty coconut shell he had filled with water from the still.

“How do you know how to do all this stuff anyway?” Tony inquires. “Drop me in a cave surrounded by enemy combatants with a bunch of scrap and a smelter ready-to-go, and I can build myself a way out, but out here? Long-term survival? That’s a different animal altogether. I might be able to engineer a trap for a rabbit or something, but I wouldn’t know how to prepare it off the top of my head, much less cook it.”

A little information is a dangerous thing in the hands of an evil genius like Iron Man, but Steve considers the question from all angles before determining the response can’t be used against him.

“Army. I ended up on the western front but could have just as easily been sent to the Pacific theater to fight the Japanese,” he explains. “I wasn’t sure where I’d be deployed, so I read up on how to survive in both environments. Practiced a little, too.”

“You always struck me as a boy scout.”

“I wasn’t. It was only me and my Ma, and… well, you know, we didn’t really have the money for it,” Steve admits, looking down at his fish. “Not that I was well enough most days to participate if we did. Bucky would show me some things, though. Knots and such. He’d try to teach me how to build a fire, but I was never really strong enough nor had the endurance for the hard way with the sticks. Could build a good kindling pile though, and if I had matches, it was easy from there.”

“…Must have been difficult,” Tony commiserates.

“It wasn’t so bad. We made it out all right, and you know, I always had Bucky to show me the things I missed.” Even when Steve had nothing, he always had Bucky.

Until he didn’t.

“I meant… Well, what I mean is finding yourself alone after– after it all went south,” Tony shifts uncomfortably in his seat near the fire. “Barnes went out on a botched mission shortly before you crashed the Valkyrie.”

“…I didn’t try to off myself because my friend died.”

“I wasn’t suggesting–”

“There was no other option.” Steve’s tone brooks no argument. Tony would be wise to heed it.

He doesn’t take the hint. “Seems to me like there should have been a way to disable the autopilot or hell, go with the low tech option: Lodge a stick between the seat and controls, angling the nose downward without you having to physically be there the entire time.” Tony just can’t help himself sometimes. It must be pathological.

Steve resists the urge to sock him. “The Valkyrie was carrying a very large, very deadly payload. It was moving much too fast,” he explains slowly through grit teeth. “At the time, I was in the middle of nowhere. If I waited any longer to try to save myself, a lot of people would have died, if not in New York than in another population center along the way. There wasn’t enough time–”

“Aunt Peg told me the story.”

Steve wishes Tony would stop calling her that. Like the relationship between the three of them isn’t complicated enough.

Besides, the comparison isn’t exactly fair. Tony had years to consider alternatives, while Steve had had mere seconds to make his decision. And really, what was there to consider? It had been a matter of his life stacked up against that of millions, with no guarantee that even he would have survived had he waited for Howard’s help. The right answer – Steve’s answer – would have been obvious to anyone with even a modicum of consideration for the lives of others.

But of course the math wouldn’t have computed for someone as destructive and selfish as Iron Man.

“The only thing you really fight for is yourself,” Steve accuses, his hackles rising. “You’re not the guy to make the sacrifice play, to lay down on the wire and let the other guy crawl over you.”

“I think I would just cut the wire,” Tony replies, his face growing tight, “like I would have done with the Valkyrie’s navigational system.” He just had to add in that last dig, didn’t he?

Steve angrily takes a bite out of his second fish, chewing spitefully. “Always a way out, huh?”

“If you’re smart enough to save everyone, including yourself, why wouldn’t you do it?”

* * *

Tony stays on the beach to tend the fire while Steve stomps through the forest, scrounging for edible vegetation. Unfortunately, island flora tended to be highly localized, and he doesn’t recognize any of the varietals he had come across, save coconuts. Though he may suffer a stomachache, he’ll likely survive any poison he ingests. Tony, on the other hand… Steve can’t take that risk, no matter how annoying he can be. So he returns empty-handed to find the man in question busy pounding hand-held stones, shattering them against larger rocks.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks, passing by to check the fire before settling down across the way.

“Flake knife,” Tony replies. He turns away, looking over his shoulder and closing his eyes as he brings a rounded stone down on the thin side of a flatter one, shattering the edge against the large rock to create a sharp (if irregular) edge. “That metal you’ve been using might dull over time, but this thing? There’s a lot of volcanic rock on the island – I’m sure you’ve noticed the mountain in the middle – the layers shatter to produce a sharp edge, just like our ancestors used to make. We can use it for hunting or gutting fish. Get a big enough piece and we can make an axe to open coconuts,” he tests the razor-sharp edge against a length of firewood, finding it satisfactory when it cleaves the wood easily. “Be careful about tiny flakes flying back towards your eyes when you’re making them though.”

Watching the display, Steve opines, “Huh, so you aren’t entirely useless after all.”

“Funny,” Tony deadpans. “But like I said, give me a box of scrap and I’ll make some tools. That’s what I do.”

“You think you can see your way into making your own shelter?” Steve’s lean-to had been designed to accommodate only one person comfortably… though he might be able to squeeze in a little spoon in a pinch, if Tony is amenable to the arrangement. Steve’s ears pink.

Tony doesn’t notice, too busy shaping his knife into a rounded disk. “What? You don’t like sharing, Cap?”

“Not if there’s a chance you’re going to bury that flake knife in my back.”

Tony’s lips purse in annoyance, as if Steve didn’t have good cause to distrust him, the man behind Iron Man. “I already agreed we need each other to survive.”

“And we’ve established you’ll do anything to save yourself.”

Tony freezes at that, looking up to bore his eyes into his temporary ally. “You know what, I will make my own shelter, and it will be way better and larger than yours.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

* * *

Unlike Steve, it is immediately clear Tony had never been a boy scout.

Steve spends the rest of the day collecting dark rocks to spell out a large S.O.S. just above the tide line on the east side of the island, facing where he assumes the nearest land mass to be in order to attract the attention of passing ships in the distance or planes overhead. He returns as the sky shades into red and pink hues to find Tony still attempting to construct a large structure. Had Tony had his choice of shelter, he might have retreated into the caves inland. Hell, had he had access to his normal set of tools and the appropriate raw material, Steve is certain Tony would have built a high-tech sustainable structure with solar and running water within a day, but as it stands, he had a stone axe and a bunch of branches and leaves without so much as a nail or rope to hold it all together. Steve can see he had tried, stripping the bark off a nearby tree in an attempt to make his own rope like Steve had, but this work is outside his particular skill set, and in the end, he had built what looked to be a precariously-constructed teepee with a pile of fronds placed haphazardly against the outside while failing to adequately cover the open top.

“Looks cozy,” Steve says.

“Shut up, Cap.”

Dinner is a set of coconuts cut with the stone tools Tony had sharpened and shaped. They say nothing as they drink from their carved tops, then scrap out the meat by the light of the fire, eating the white flesh directly off the edge of their knives.

Tony is the first to break the silence, “Who do you think will come for us?”

“Probably S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Steve wagers, slurping the last of the coconut meat from the empty shell. “There was a tracking beacon on the Quinjet. They’ll have the approximate location of our last position before we went down.”

“There are thousands of islands in this part of the world. I think a fisherman will spot us first,” Tony hopes, but even Steve hears the unease in his voice, as if he doesn’t really believe his conjecture. “But on the off-chance S.H.I.E.L.D. does come for us…”

“They’ll know you’re Iron Man,” Steve finishes. It would be the only logical conclusion based on his last transmission. There were two men in that Quinjet: Captain America and Iron Man, and S.H.I.E.L.D. knows Steve is not the latter.

“Please, Steve. They can’t know. If you aren’t one of them – if you aren’t a HYDRA double agent – then you can’t turn me over,” Tony pleads, setting aside his coconut. “I won’t survive their custody.”

Steve doesn’t know how to respond to the ravings of a madman. No matter Steve’s personal feelings towards Tony Stark, he can’t just let Iron Man walk free to wreak havoc on global security simply because the root of his actions isn’t malicious so much as misguided, the result of some conspiracy theory formulated by a deranged, paranoid genius. It wouldn’t be right nor would it be safe for Tony himself.

The wood in the fire cracks, splitting into a pile of embers and kicking up bits of glowing fire which just as quickly extinguish into blackened ash.

“HYDRA is a defunct organization. They haven’t been heard of since the war,” Steve tries to reason with him while knowing the effort to be futile.

Tony scoffs. “Only because they don’t want you to know about them. Secret organizations work better if they _remain_ a secret, but cut off one head, and two more shall take its place.”

Steve can’t listen to this. It’s absolutely heartbreaking how delusional his ex-lover has turned out to be. “We should probably get to sleep soon.” He stands to feed more fuel into the fire, estimating an inch of wood per hour to last the night. “Fishing is best done in the morning when they’re hungry.”

“You would have killed me, you know,” Tony says softly, drawing Steve’s attention. “Back in the bunker, when you cracked the arc reactor in my chest. Before I had open-heart surgery to correct my old injury, the arc reactor was the only thing keeping the shrapnel from shredding my heart. When it first happened, Yinsen… he said people with a wound like mine were called the walking dead because the prognosis is a week, give or take, but I survived, built myself a way out. If you had done what you did a couple years earlier, I would have been dead,” he looks up at Steve. “Are you going to kill me, Steve? Because if you hand me over to S.H.I.E.L.D., my prognosis will be much less than a week, and I won’t go easy. They won’t let me.”

“You won’t be tortured to death, Tony,” Steve reassures him. “We have laws against that.”

“Tell that to the Guantanamo Bay prisoners.”

* * *

They both intend to bed down separately for the night: Steve in his serviceable lean-to and Tony in his rickety teepee.

“You sure you want to sleep in that thing? It might fall on you.” Steve gazes at the structure with a critical eye. It will barely keep out the cold.

“I’ll be fine. The old girl may not be pretty, but she’s as sturdy as a brick house.” Tony pats one of the poles. This causes the weight to slowly shift, and both look on in horror as the shoddy bark rope snaps, causing the rest of the support beams to collapse inward like a flimsy house of cards. “Or I can just sleep by the fire under the stars. That’s good, too,” Tony amends.

Steve sighs. “We don’t have any blankets, and you’re only wearing a thin undershirt. You’ll freeze,” he states before offering, “Look, if we each sleep on our side, we’ll both fit in mine.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“Who said anything about charity? This is survival,” Steve slips into his shelter, laying on his side facing the open space left for Tony. He pats the flattened coconut fronds lining the bottom. “We’ll keep each other warm.”

Tony tips his head up, hooking an arm around to scratch the back of his neck. “What the hell, I’m game.”

He crawls in beside Steve, facing away from him. Steve drapes an arm over Tony, pulling him in close, cradling him to the curve of his body and burying his nose in his greasy hair. Tony smells of musky sweat and sea salt. It’s mildly unpleasant but achingly familiar, like coming home.

“Hm… I forgot how warm you are,” Tony says, leaning back into the snuggle, his hand covering Steve’s arm, pressing it into his middle, inspiring Steve’s stomach to flip.

“…Why did you save me, Tony?” Steve murmurs, his breath ghosting against his ear.

Tony sighs. “I don’t know… the cabin was underwater, but I couldn’t let you die,” he replies. “I thought you might be HYDRA, but in violation of all flight safety instructions to secure your own mask first, you took the time to break me out. You knew I was Iron Man, but…”

“I knew you as Tony Stark first.”

“And I know you as Steve Rogers. I’m still not sure whether you’re the genuine article, but I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?” he strokes Steve’s arm draped over his stomach. “Either way, you have always been Steve to me. Always will be.”

It’s a facsimile of the memory Steve recalled when he had been underwater, when he was certain he going to die. He and Tony lying together, content and at peace, the words dancing on his lips, needing to be uttered. Back then, he had wanted Tony to know before it was too late, and now here he is, gifted a second chance.

He can’t waste it.

“Before you pulled me out, when it was the end for me… You see, I have a lot of regrets, but the one that I kept coming back to was… Well, it’s um…”

“It was what?”

He savors the feel of Tony nuzzled close in his arms, warm and solid and his. How much had he dreamed of this? How often had he hoped for an encore, a rekindling of their prior romance, but that was before he knew Tony had only been using him for information. Steve wasn’t a romantic partner so much as a source, and now? Now, he is Tony’s best chance of survival. Nothing more, nothing less.

“It’s nothing,” he says, closing his eyes and pulling away incrementally. Because that is what he is to Tony: Nothing.

“Okay…” Tony arches his back, cracking it a bit before settling in to rest against his one-time human space heater. “Good night, Steve.”

“Good night, Tony.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, bruises acquired at the time of death are not visible until after embalming. As always, if you enjoyed this, please leave me a comment letting me know :)


	3. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When rescue arrives in the form of the STRIKE team headed by Brock Rumlow, Steve must decide between trusting his gut and trusting Tony.

Steve wakes slowly, his mind hazy in the soft sunlight of morning. He rubs the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, dragging his palms down his face then up through his hair, his elbows crooked and spread wide as he–

Wait a minute. Why isn’t he crammed to one side of the shelter?

_Tony!_

He scrambles out of the lean-to, quickly pushing to his feet to survey his surroundings, trying to determine where the man could have run off to, and–

Tony is wielding a knife.

…That he is using to cut open strips of aloe, scooping out the leaf’s innards to apply to his legs as well as his arms and the back of his neck, where Steve’s shirt had failed to cover him the day before. He twists around at his waist to face Steve, having heard him stir.

“Good morning, Cap. How’d you sleep?”

“…Good.” Steve’s first instinct had been to pounce on Iron Man and disarm him, but he tamps down the adrenaline rush. Tony isn’t a threat to him, not so long as he needs Steve to survive. “Sunburn?”

“Yeah, pro tip: When you’re on the water, sunlight reflects off the surface. Usually, I’d wear sunscreen, but hey, now that I’ve established a good base tan, I won’t burn.”

“Tony–”

“Just kidding, that’s a myth,” Tony gives Steve a quick once-over, finding his light skin undamaged. “You know, I never thought I’d begrudge an Irishman for their ability to withstand the sun. That’s all sorts of wrong.”

“Tony,” Steve tries again. “Do you need help with that?”

“No, I’ve got it,” Tony replies, putting down the emptied leaf. “Just… I don’t know, maybe if you can teach me how to spearfish more effectively, we won’t have to be out on the water for so long?”

_But if he teaches Tony how to survive on his own…_ Steve eyes the knife.

“What do you say, Cap?”

Steve is being ridiculous. Iron Man is many things, but he’s not a murderer, and this is _Tony_. He needs Steve, if only as a sounding board for his endless stream-of-conscious monologues and soliloquies.

“Alright,” Steve acquiesces. “Let’s go before the sun gets too high.”

It takes a few days of early-morning fishing and an entire bushel of aloe for Tony to get the hang of it, but he does eventually. He’s still not as fast nor as accurate as Steve, but he can make do in a pinch, if something _untoward_ were to happen to Steve. The implication makes him a touch nervous still, but deep down, he doesn’t want Tony to starve if he gets eaten by a shark one day.

* * *

And so they fall into a routine: fishing in the morning followed by breakfast and repairs to the water stills and shelter, then lunch and exploration where they collect more wood, followed by yet another round of fishing and dinner, with fire maintenance performed periodically throughout the day. Occasionally, Tony catches a bird or small mammal in traps he had devised, lending some variety to their meals. But still, Steve worries. He worries whether a tropical storm will descend upon them, destroying their subsistence lifestyle, or if they’ll run out of coconuts, or whether that rash on Tony’s arm is normal. So, Tony scopes out and identifies a cave they can use in the unlikely event of a natural disaster; he experiments with smoking extra fish (if there is any to be had considering Steve’s voracious appetite); and _Yes, it’s just eczema. Relax about it, Steve._

But mostly, there’s a lot of downtime, where the lull in activity gives way to boredom. To pass the time, Steve exercises, Tony fidgets with his various low-tech inventions, but mostly, they talk.

“This one time at MIT, Rhodey and I had a bet about just how realistic the ‘elevator of blood’ scene in the Shining was–”

Steve crinkles his brow. “The what?”

“We have got to get you caught up on the classics,” Tony states rather dramatically, throwing up his hands at the poor state of Steve’s cinematic knowledge. “It’s a horror film from the early eighties – scared the shit out of me – but there’s this one famous scene where a river of blood rushes out of these elevator doors, and… well…”

Long story short, they had flooded an elevator, and the weight and pressure of hundreds of gallons of water nearly snapped the cable and blew the entire thing open. Tony took sole responsibility, and Howard had to donate a building to save him from expulsion.

It was terrible, absolutely awful, and someone could have gotten hurt…

Steve can’t stop laughing.

It’s times like this he is truly grateful for the company. The loneliness would have driven him insane.

However, that isn’t to say Tony couldn’t be frustrating.

“Hey Cap,” Tony says, apropos of nothing. He’s lying on his back next to Steve, both looking up at the gently-rustling palm fronds above. “If you were stranded on a deserted island–”

“Hypothetically-speaking of course,” Steve interjects.

“Yes, of course, purely hypothetical scenario that bears no resemblance to our current circumstances – Anyways, what is the one thing you’d bring with you?” Tony thinks about it for a moment before adding, “That you can carry with you, of course.”

Steve shrugs, raking a hand through his hair. He might be able to carry a speedboat, but he knows that’s not the spirit of the question. So, he considers it. They have their bare necessities accounted for, and Tony isn’t a bad conversationalist. Still–

“Something to do, I guess.”

Tony rolls onto his side to face Steve, propped up on one elbow and lashes fluttering. “You say that like I’m not right here,” he says, his tone even, with just a hint of their old flirtation.

They stare at each other for a long moment, Steve’s face heating up in ways that have little to do with the sun beating down on them.

_Maybe…_

But then Tony breaks out in a grin, playfully tapping Steve’s nose. “Got you.”

Steve abruptly flips over to the other side, turning away to stand. “I’m going to check the traps,” he says flatly.

“Want me to come with?”

“No. You stay here. Make sure the fire doesn’t go out.”

It’s a rather poor excuse. There’s plenty of wood, and the wind isn’t high even high so low to the ground.

“Alright… just don’t be too long.” The man even sounds a touch apologetic, but Steve doesn’t stick around to find out. Instead, he simply grunts, stalking off towards the tree line.

He knows he shouldn’t be too sore. Tony has always been a flirt, and with no other targets, he simply directed all that pent-up energy towards Steve. Steve knows… _he knows_ Tony doesn’t mean anything by it. Yet his words are a reminder of what Steve wants but can’t possibly have for a number of reasons, chief of which are that Tony doesn’t want to, not really anyway, and even if he did, Steve couldn’t because Tony is clearly unwell and can’t possibly consent to anything in his current state. His diminished mental capacity means that any action on Steve’s part to initiate a sexual relationship while fully knowledgeable of Tony’s limitations could rightly be called rape.

Steve heads deeper into the jungle then climbs over a large boulder to reach an enclosure where the stone forms a concave dome. He presses his back to the wall, and undoes his pants to pull out his dick. His eyes drift closed as he strokes himself to memories of Tony from long ago, his lips slotted over Steve’s, coming away red and swollen. He imagines his hands are Tony’s roaming over him, caressing his tender bits, awakening Steve’s body to stiffened interest. The way Tony had climbed into his lap (clothed of course) for better leverage, pressing kisses onto his jawline, his breath hot on Steve’s neck as he rubbed his ass against–

Steve’s breath hitches as his orgasm hits, washing over him in waves.

Afterwards, he feels guilty, like he always does. He shouldn’t be fantasizing about Tony – it isn’t right – so he lies and tells himself he won’t anymore. _This is the last time,_ he thinks, as he cleans his shame from his hands, wiping it off best he can (that is to say: not very well) on a leaf. He heads back towards camp, checking the traps along the way before making a detour to ensure the integrity of his large SOS on the eastern side of the island, promising himself that he’ll rinse off in the ocean once there, before Tony figures out that his solo sojourns into the wood are not as innocent as Steve would have him believe.

A crippling sense of shame washes over him at the thought of Tony, completely unaware of the degenerate he beds down with night after night, pressed so close to his body. Occasionally, Tony would shift in his sleep so his ass is flush against–

Steve’s dick twitches with interest.

_Goddammit._

Then again, Steve never claimed to be a saint. 

* * *

When Steve returns to camp several hours later, Tony has made a mess of the campsite. There’s sticky pulp everywhere including on the large rounded metal sheeting Steve had repurposed for a cooking vessel that one time he tried to make soup, and Tony has his hands in a large hole in the sand lined with excess plastic sheeting. He sits up, pulling out a trapezoidal fine-mesh screen covered in the self-same off-white pulp.

“What are you doing, Tony?” Steve asks.

Tony startles then looks over his shoulder, his eyes wide. “What’re you doing back so soon?”

“I asked _you_ first.”

He looks a touch embarrassed as he explains, “It was supposed to be a surprise, but…” he cants his head to a spot near the shelter, where his discarded tank top has been folded over and placed under a flattened wood board with a rock atop it. “I’ve been making homemade paper from the boiled down stems of some of the woodier plants around here. Gives me something to do when you’re off having a little me-time, you know. I’ve made like half a dozen sheets so far over the past few days. Folded them in some leaves and put them under a rock to keep them from flying off.”

Steve walks towards their shelter, finding the five finished sheets under the aforementioned stone. They’re irregular, in the same shape of the metal mesh Tony had been using with some of the plant fibers still visible, but it is serviceable as real paper.

Tony is still rambling. “Just thought maybe you could draw or…” he trails off. “Sorry, this is stupid, isn’t it? I feel like you’re looking at me like this is stupid and a waste of time when I could be… I don’t know, constructing a radio out of coconuts or pretty much anything more useful than–”

“This is for me?” Steve cuts him off, holding up the parcel of papers.

“…Yes,” Tony confirms. “I thought you could maybe use the burned sticks as charcoal. It’s something for you to do besides going on daily long walks through the woods.”

_Long walks through the woods._

Steve blushes. “I love it, Tony. Thank you.”

Tony smiles as Steve settles down, sitting cross-legged near the fire to pull out a blackened stick. He holds it over the paper for a moment then puts it back down.

“What’s the matter? Lost your inspiration?”

“No… just… it takes you several hours to make one of these, right?” Steve says, placing the paper back into its leafy envelope, careful not to bend it. “I just want to make sure that whatever I use them for is worth it.”

Tony shrugs. “Paper is meant to be used,” he says, shifting his mesh through the pulp, adding another layer of thickness. “I’m sure you’ll find a worthy subject.”

* * *

Tony is restless and jittery. He keeps sneaking covert looks over at Steve, his fingers tapping a rhythm against the convex side of the metal drum he had used to make paper pulp.

“Hey,” he says, setting aside his makeshift instrument and scooting closer as Steve grants him his full attention. “I was wondering… Well, we’ve been here for a while, and we’re likely going to be here a while yet.”

“Mm hm,” Steve agrees.

Tony leans forward, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I was wondering if maybe you’d like to… for old time’s sake,” he murmurs before kissing him full as he crawls into his lap.

_Yes._

But Steve can’t, so he turns away, breaking their kiss. He gently pushes Tony’s hands away and slides him off. “Tony, we can’t. You’re– It wouldn’t be right.” It’s a mantra he repeats every time he makes his secret little detours in the forest to let off some steam.

“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to. It was just a suggestion,” Tony says, but his tone betrays his underlying disappointment.

It’s not that Steve doesn’t want to – He does, God help him – but “You’re not well,” he states; “you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Hold on,” and now Tony is angry. “Are you saying you can’t because I’m– that I’m not of sound mind and body? That I can’t consent because I’ve lost my mind? That’s what you’re saying?”

“I don’t want to take advantage of you when you’re in a vulnerable state. You’re not thinking clearly – you haven’t for a while – and maybe… maybe our current circumstances have made things worse. You’re stuck here with me, but you shouldn’t feel obligated to–”

“Fuck you, Cap,” Tony scoffs, returning to his metal drum. “You think I’m crazy? That I’m vulnerable? Vulnerable nothing; my mind is as sharp as ever. The only crazy thing I’ve done recently is think that maybe we’re both a little lonely, and you might like to not be for a while.”

He flips it over, filling the bottom with his various flake arrowheads with which he had been experimenting. “Guess I was wrong,” he mumbles, as he gets up to leave.

* * *

Tony is in the woods, slicing branching segments off long, thin sticks and cutting a notch at the top to fit an arrowhead in an attempt to optimize the design of their spears.

Steve approaches him, purposely making noise in the underbrush so Tony will hear him and not test out his javelin throw. Or if he is going to, at least leave no question as to his intent.

Tony doesn’t turn around as he calls out, “Looking for the madman, Steve? I promise I have not used the containers comprising our water stills to construct my very own special hat to block out transmissions. Only tin foil will do anyway.”

Steve actually understands that reference, but he suspects Tony knew he would. “I would like to apologize. I could have worded that better.”

“I’m not sure there’s a better way to word: I think you’re too crazy to hook up with, even if you were the last man on Earth.” Tony’s voice is positively acidic.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “That’s not what I’m saying. It’s just… okay, your story is a little far-fetched, alright? You’re saying that everyone I know, practically everyone I work with, is actually a double-agent for an organization I shut down seventy years ago–”

“Not everyone or rather not consciously anyway,” Tony interrupts as he turns to face him.

“Fair enough, but you’re saying I can’t trust anyone.”

“I can’t be the first person to say that to you. You work in a spy agency,” he scoffs. “Of the two of us, you should be the more paranoid one.”

Fury _had_ told Steve not to trust anyone, right before Tony decimated Project Insight, a program about which even Steve had his qualms. What would Steve have done in Iron Man’s position, when faced with an agency so obsessed with security, that it would tear down everything America stood for to attain it? Steve knows the answer, and the fact that it aligned with that of a known villain and domestic terrorist makes him uncomfortable. However, he has never been good at blindly following orders; so ultimately, though Tony’s reasoning may have been flawed, Steve can’t fault his actions.

“You’re right about that much,” he admits.

“And is what I’m saying so outside the realm of possibility as to render me mentally incompetent in your eyes?”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve repeats. “I shouldn’t have implied that you are unfit to make your own decisions.”

“…Apology accepted.”

Though Tony is within his rights to question S.H.I.E.L.D.’s motivations and actions, they were just going to have to agree to disagree on the whole ‘HYDRA is S.H.I.E.L.D.’ conclusion.

* * *

After spending so long in the man’s presence, Steve ponders how he never really knew Tony all that well before. Not just the whole Tony-Stark-is-Iron-Man thing, but also that Tony is not _the_ Tony Stark. There’s a difference between the man he is and the man he projects himself to be.

“…and then every summer up until I was eighteen, Howard would take me on expeditions to the Arctic to find ‘the greatest hero and patriot who ever lived,’” Tony rolls his eyes. “I could have taken off the entire year and toured with AC/DC during their _Blow Up Your Video World Tour,_ Steve. Do you know how big of a deal that was in 1988?”

They’re sitting on mats of multiple large broad leaves in front of the fire, the flames illuminating their faces. Tony chatters away as he uses his flake knife to whittle small pieces of wood into Iron Man figurines before tossing each one into the fire when they turn out to vaguely resemble turds.

Steve frowns. “Weren’t you underage?”

“I turned eighteen that year, but that’s beside the point. Howard just had to be a giant asshole about the entire thing. I guess that isn’t too surprising. He was always an asshole about everything I wanted.”

“I’m sure he loved you.”

Tony stops, looking over at Steve with a critical expression. “Are we talking about the same Howard? Howard Stark?” he inquires, his tone steady but harsh. “That bastard was cold; he was calculating. He never told me he loved me. He never even told me he liked me. The guy’s happiest day was when he shipped me off to boarding school.” He huffs in frustration, throwing his current woodworking project into the fire before he can even examine its poor likeness. “You don’t know my dad like I do.”

Tony is right, of course. Sometimes, circumstances can change a man, and Steve hadn’t known Howard since 1945, twenty-five years before he became a father. Who was he to say what the man had become in the interim?

“I’m sorry you and your father weren’t close. It must have been tough.”

Steve’s own father had died when he was a baby, but sometimes… sometimes Steve would look to Mr. Barnes on occasion, particularly when he had been much younger. He had wondered what it would have been like to be one of the Barnes brood, loud and happy with a full house and Bucky as his flesh-and-blood brother, but the fantasy always made him feel guilty about his own Ma. She was his family, and he would never discard her, like Howard had apparently done to Tony. Steve can’t help but think that perhaps Tony’s grudge against S.H.I.E.L.D. had its roots in his unresolved feelings towards one of its founders: his own father.

“Poor little rich boy problems,” Tony grumbles, his voice low as he hacks himself another length of wood with more force than is strictly necessary. “That’s what he called it when I begged to come home. I hated the other boys in boarding school, but… Stark men are made of iron, that’s what Howard always said. So I stopped being a pussy and started getting pussy. It’s easier than you’d think if you got the money to throw around. A little too easy, you know? Enough to make you wonder whether it’s you or the money they like. And then you realize that you’re asking the wrong question.”

“What’s the right question?”

Tony’s knife pauses, and he stares directly at Steve. “Does it even matter?”

He drops his gaze to concentrate on stripping off the remaining bark. “Everyone’s got an angle. So let’s say you’re interested in Heather because she’s pretty and blonde and has legs for days. Does it matter that she wouldn’t be looking your way if you weren’t just on the cover of Forbes? If you’re both interested in each other for superficial reasons, it would be hypocritical to fault Heather for going home with you before she learns that there might be a decent guy under all that gel and expensive skincare.” His eyes flit back to Steve, whose disapproval must be evident on his face because Tony says, “Moisturizers are for men, too, Steve; don’t give me that look.”

“What look?”

“The constipated one that tells me you think I’m a terrible person.”

Steve rakes his fingers through his hair and sighs. “I don’t think you’re a terrible person. I just think it’s a little sad–”

“Pity’s worse, Cap,” Tony states flatly.

So Steve tries to re-phrase his sentiment. “You’re smart and funny and–”

“Incredibly rich, I know.”

“I was going to say devastatingly handsome.”

“Made all the more attractive by my bank account,” Tony adds, putting aside his project to grant Steve his full attention. He massages his left palm with the fingers of his right. “Look, I know the game, okay? Attractive twenty-somethings don’t just fall into my lap because they actually think the grey peppering my hair is _distinguished_. You don’t have to pretend with me. In fact, it’s kind of insulting at this juncture.”

Steve hasn’t been this offended since ’42.

“For one, I’m ninety-seven. If anyone is robbing the cradle, it’s me,” he points out, “and two, I couldn’t possibly care less about your money.”

“It’s a lot of money.”

Steve ignores him. “The first time I saw you, I didn’t even know who you were. I was just excited to be introduced to the cute consultant. I’ve always had a thing for saucy brunettes,” he explains. “And then Fury said you were Howard’s kid–”

“Of course he did.”

“And I thought, ‘that’s gonna be odd,’ but well, a man can’t help what he’s attracted to. And… and for a minute there, I thought aren’t I a lucky fella? This self-assured, gorgeous man actually likes me back,” Steve says, his voice rough and vulnerable. “I should have known it was too good to be true.” He has no idea why the realization even hurts as much as it does. It’s not like he is unused to rejection, especially considering his stature before Project Rebirth. Sometimes, he still feels like that man even now, small and unwell and unwanted.

He looks over at Tony.

Apparently, things haven’t changed that much at all.

Tony hesitates. “I– I did like you, Steve.”

_Hypocrite._

“Now who’s the one pretending? I know you only dated me to get information on the Iron Man investigation,” Steve states matter-of-factly. “It was a dick move, but I’m not going to let you die just because you aren’t interested in me.” He isn’t a jerk, unlike present company.

Tony purses his lips. “I kissed you because I wanted to, and okay, full disclosure: I was trying to get information on the Iron Man investigation – they were paper files, so hacking wasn’t working,” he admits, clearly frustrated to have been thwarted by low-tech communication systems. When Steve frowns at that, he holds up his hands. “In my defense, I was also like 82% sure you were HYDRA, which is why I didn’t sleep with you. Also, you said you were a virgin–”

“I didn’t say I was a virgin,” Steve protests. “I said I’ve never been in a relationship before.” Just because men in his day didn’t date openly, doesn’t mean anonymous encounters weren’t a thing.

Tony slouches back, his arms propped up behind to catch himself. “Oh thank God,” he mutters, dramatically and rather blasphemously in Steve’s opinion. “And here I thought I was corrupting the innocent.”

“Hey, you still used me, regardless of my prior experience,” Steve states, utterly annoyed. _Are virgins the only ones allowed to be upset by such treatment?_

“Sorry, that was a dick thing to say,” Tony says, now leaning forward in earnest. “It’s not that your feelings don’t count, but… it’s a lot of pressure being someone’s first, especially if they’re older. When someone stays a virgin at your age, especially looking like you do – I mean, look at you; you must have had plenty of opportunities – well, you begin to think they might be waiting for someone extra-special, and you don’t want to be that person if there are other motives in play.” He palms his forehead. “I know that still makes me sound like an asshole, but that’s the thought-process anyway.”

“…Who’s to say I wasn’t waiting for the right partner?” Steve says, sliding closer.

“And you picked _the_ Tony Stark to be that partner?” Tony chuckles. “If you weren’t after my money, I’d worry about what that says about your taste in men.”

“That my standards are way too high, and I’ll probably die alone if I can’t learn to be satisfied with less?” he quips, choosing the more charitable option.

Tony draws closer. “…You’re a sweet talker, Steven Grant Rogers. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“No, actually,” Steve says honestly as Tony closes the distance. He places one leg on either side of Steve’s, positioning himself over him with his hands on Steve’s shoulders. “Only you, sweetheart.”

It’s as easy as breathing, the way they fall back together after so long, like nothing has changed. Tony is warm and familiar with how he fits on Steve’s lap, the taste of his tongue and the press of his erection prodding Steve’s stomach. Steve’s own dick rises to the occasion, and when Tony hesitates, breaking their kiss, Steve buries his face in the hollow of his collar, defeated.

“Sorry,” Tony says, the excuse rumbling through his chest. “It– it’s just been a while, and um…”

“It’s okay, Tony. It’s alright,” he says, rubbing Tony from his hip down his outer thigh and back in comfort. “This… we don’t have to go any further than this, okay?” This is a terrible idea anyway. What is Steve doing, taking advantage of a man who is mentally unwell? He should be ashamed of himself, should be–

“No, I want to, honey, but… It’s been a while since I’ve… with another man. I should probably get the aloe.” And Tony slides off his lap to do just that.

_Oh._

Crouched in front of him, Tony kisses him again before pulling away. “I’ll be right back.” He punctuates the sentiment with another peck on the lips then hurries to retrieve his supplies. Steve sits, dazed at the turn of events. Of course by now, the man is quick with the flake knife, swiftly slicing two aloe leaves for good measure and bringing them close for…

Steve’s brain shorts when Tony mounts him again, pushing up Steve’s shirt, grinding his ass down shamelessly against his erection. Steve tentatively slips his hands from around Tony’s hips to the back, grabbing the generous globes of the man’s ass to massage them. Tony reaches down to unbutton his jeans, lifting up off Steve to shimmy out, nearly tripping forward in his haste to remove them and nearly knocking his forehead against Steve’s.

Steve catches him before he does. He chuckles low as he lifts Tony by the thighs and spills him onto the broad-leaf mat, following shortly after to loom over him.

Tony freezes then, his breath quick as a jackrabbit and eyes large and dilated in the firelight.

Steve sits back on his haunches. _This is a mistake,_ he thinks.

“…Tony?” he asks instead, withdrawing his touch.

“It’s nothing, Steve,” Tony says, rising to a seated position, his legs folding under him and hand pressed against Steve’s chest, pushing him onto his back. “Just… I like being on top.” He climbs on top of Steve, his clothed chest hovering over Steve’s nude one. “If that’s alright with you.”

There’s history there, an old wound Tony is not ready to address. So Steve rests his hands on the safety of the man’s hips, “Whatever makes you comfortable, sweetheart.” _And only what makes you feel comfortable, makes you feel safe._

Tony smiles then, his mouth a wobbly line that he touches, light and timid, to Steve’s lips.

“Hey,” Steve whispers. “We can stop. I’m serious.” _They should stop._

“No, I want to,” Tony protests, his voice unaccountably tenderly. “I want this with you.” He’s moving atop Steve again, his ass pulsing soft against Steve’s pelvis and hands running up Steve’s arms to grasp both wrists above his head. “Please, Steve?”

And how can Steve say no to that?

Together, they shuck off his pants and underwear until he is lying nude beneath a partially-clothed Tony, their mouths slotted together, wet and hungry. Tony runs his fingers across the sliced groove of aloe, coating them in its natural slick then reaching behind him to slide over Steve’s erection before angling it towards his hole.

“Tony, are you sure?” Steve murmurs again, but Tony is already lowering down, fucking himself on Steve’s fat cockhead.

He grunts in lieu of a reply, slowing sinking lower every few thrusts downward as he adjusts to the intrusion. Steve allows Tony to set his own pace, to pin and use his body to his satisfaction, concerned that any upward thrust on his part can be construed as a betrayal of the terms of this encounter.

Eventually, painstakingly, Tony is fully seated atop Steve’s cock, as he eases up and down the full length of him. He moans, his eyes drifted to half lids and the sweat making his hair stick to his brow, his cock standing tall and stiff between them. He relinquishes his grip on Steve’s wrists, bringing them back to his hips to encourage Steve’s own limited initiative. So, Steve sits up, softly kissing Tony, slipping his hands to Tony’s ass to raise him up incrementally and push him down just as slow in a rolling motion. They establish a rhythm with Steve cautiously thrusting up into him, attuned to Tony’s body language, his participation and enthusiasm, aware of how precious a gift they are sharing after everything. And when Steve cums inside Tony, he gently pulls him off, laying him back as Steve settles between his thighs and takes his dick in his mouth, sucking him off with practiced ease.

Tony’s hand is in his hair, gently gripping his short locks. “Oh my God,” Tony moans with wonder, then exclaims, “Oh fuck-oh fuck-oh fuck!” when Steve does something clever with his tongue.

Tony is chanting his name softly, thrusting shallow into his mouth before Steve takes him deep, occasionally sliding down his throat. The squelch and slurp of Steve around Tony’s dick is obscene enough, but then Steve sticks his finger in the combination of aloe and cum dripping out of his hole, pushing it back inside, pumping in and out as he works Tony’s shaft. Tony cums with a shout, his thighs shamelessly squeezing Steve’s head before finally going limp.

Steve reemerges from between his legs, wiping his lips and chin of residual saliva and cum with his wrist then lying down next to Tony, one arm thrown across his middle.

“How? I mean… where?” Tony stutters as he fumbles with his pants, planting both feet on the mat to heft up his lower body and pull them up. He doesn’t even bother refastening them. “You’re actually good at that.”

Okay, now Tony’s astonishment is bordering on insulting.

“Just so you know, I’m choosing to take that as a compliment,” Steve states, a touch miffed. “I told you: Not a virgin. I’ve had a lot of practice back in my day.”

“What other hidden talents are you hiding?” Tony mock-accuses, shifting to face him, propping up his head on a bent elbow folded underneath. His other hand migrates to Steve’s ass cheek. “Don’t tell me your asshole vibrates.”

“Would you like to find out?”

Tony bats his shoulder, chuckling. “Steven Grant Rogers, was that a joke?”

“We won’t know unless you’re willing to try,” Steve deadpans. “Do it for science.”

“Maybe later. Now, I’m in the mood for a snuggle,” Tony cuddles in close, burying his face in Steve’s chest, his eyelids fluttering closed. Sandwiched between the warmth of the fire at his back and that of Steve in front, Tony drifts off to sleep, toasty and protected.

“As you wish, sweetheart.”

* * *

Steve wakes first, chilly in the early morning air. They had neglected to bed down under their lean-to and had spent the night outside, exposed to the elements. At least Tony stayed warm, having been closer to the fire and wrapped up in Steve’s limbs.

Steve gets up, carefully extracting himself from Tony’s embrace to tend to the fire, which had burned low with neglect. He looks over at his lover, lying face down in a pillow made of the top half of Steve’s uniform and bolstered by his arm underneath, his legs splayed and pants riding low. He looks relaxed – more serene than Steve has ever seen him – that it inspires Steve to get out his satchel of paper. He grabs some charcoal from the edges of the fire and a flat metal surface, sitting down to draw the long line of Tony’s back as the man sleeps on his stomach, still for once in his life.

He’s putting the finishing touches on the focal point of his drawing – Tony’s pert ass – when the man in question stirs. He stretches, his mouth growing wide in a yawn before he looks over at Steve.

“Morning, honey,” Tony mumbles as he rolls up to a standing position. “What chu doing there?”

“I finally found a ‘worthy subject,’” Steve says, holding up the paper to show Tony. “I drew this for you. What do you think?”

Tony holds the picture, staring at it for so long Steve starts to feel self-conscious. “…I love it,” he finally decrees, leaning up to kiss Steve on the cheek.

* * *

And so they fall into a new routine: survival by day with stolen kisses and lingering touches peppered throughout and sex when the mood strikes, often times at night when the light is low.

Tony slides off Steve, coming to rest near him as their breathing slows and evens out.

“So,” Tony begins, stroking his chin in thought. “It doesn’t vibrate, but damn…”

Steve simply hums, nuzzling against Tony’s neck. In this moment, he is content, happier than he has been in ages with Tony is his arms.

* * *

Unfortunately, the universe being what it is, it doesn’t last.

“I hate camping; I ever tell you that?” Tony grumbles later, approximately three weeks into their isolation. He slaps the back of his neck and brushes off his arms. “There’s no WiFi, no beds, and bugs constantly try to eat you alive. I don’t know why people would voluntarily subject themselves to the experience.”

Steve tends to their breakfast cooked over the open fire. “It can be nice to get away from it all,” he says. “Not now, and not this situation, obviously, but under the right circumstances–”

“There is never such a thing as the _right circumstances_ for camping. It’s something you endure so you can go home later and pretend you have what it takes to live off the grid,” Tony protests, lightly knocking his chest. “Me? Forget the tent and shitting in a hole in the ground. Sign me up for a cabin.”

“Some people consider a cabin ‘camping,’” Steve points out as he rotates their fish. He’s become practically a professional at knowing just how to roast them to produce perfectly-flaky flesh.

Tony waves his hands in disagreement. “No, you’re not hearing me, Steve. I’m talking a cabin with all the modern comforts of home, including indoor plumbing, a full-sized kitchen, and a fully-stocked garage for me to tinker with. That’s the dream right there.”

“So, you basically want a cabin-esque house with no neighbors.”

“I can compromise on the no-neighbors thing,” he says. “We’ll build our cabin by the lake. Say hi to Ole Nessie every morning.”

“So it’s a _we_ now?” Steve says. He removes the fish from the fire, handing a stick to Tony.

He accepts, his demeanor sheepish as he shuffles his feet and fidgets nervously. “It can be, you know. When we get out of here–”

“You know that’s not possible, Tony.”

Tony narrows his eyes at him. “And why not?”

“You know why.” Steve doesn’t quite look at Tony. He kicks out his legs to rest his elbows atop upright knees as he hangs his head between to ruffle his fingers through the hair at the back.

“Are you still planning on turning me in?” Tony infers, his tone accusatory. “There’s no guarantee that S.H.I.E.L.D. will be the first to find us.”

“Are you still planning on being Iron Man when this is all said and done?” Steve asks, lifting his head once again to stare at the other man.

Tony is about to respond when Steve spots a Quinjet coming upon them from the east side of the island. He stands, watching the craft circle back and land in the approximate location of the SOS.

He looks down to see Tony has stood as well, his face terrified as he turns.

Steve is on him before he can run. He envelops Tony in a comforting, restraining hold, being sure not to harm the man even as he detains him.

“Steve… you can’t let them have me. Please Steve.” His eyes, sparkling with manic conviction, are enough to sway most men, but unfortunately for Tony, Steve is not most men.

“You’re going to be alright,” he murmurs into Tony’s hair even as the man struggles, trying to twist away. “We can… they have doctors who specialize in this sort of thing.” Steve has heard that S.H.I.E.L.D. has top-rate psychiatrists, not that he’d ever availed himself of their services (even when he probably should have – in hindsight – back in the early days following his defrosting). They can help Tony. Maybe if Steve explained–

“You’ve got to believe me. If you let them take me, I won’t live long enough to see any doctor… and it won’t be just me either. Pepper, Rhodey, Happy… They have nothing to do with Iron Man, but HYDRA will see them all as potential accomplices, loose ends they have to burn off to keep their secrets from unraveling,” Tony pleads, even as he attempts to pull away from Steve, but any effort to do so proves futile against Steve’s superior strength. Tony continues to implore him, “Please, Steve. S.H.I.E.L.D. can’t know. HYDRA can’t know!”

And Steve knows – God help him, but he knows – deep down with heartbreaking clarity that he could never justify Tony’s acts of terrorism in a court of law. Even if he manages to convince S.H.I.E.L.D. that Tony is sick and needs a hospital, not prison, that he meant well… S.H.I.E.L.D. will never let him out. Tony Stark is much too dangerous with his idle hands and fevered, talented, downright _brilliant_ mind. A small, not-insignificant part of Steve even agreed that they shouldn’t. Tony had proven to be a danger to himself and others, and the next time he suffers a break from reality, Steve might be the one who must put him down.

How will he live with himself then?

_Still…_

“Steve, please,” Tony begs, having gone limp in his arms but still hopeful of reprieve. “You’re signing my death warrant if you don’t let me go.”

_What if he’s right?_

If Tony is raving mad as Steve suspects, then worse-case scenario: Steve already knows who he is. He can enlist others, Tony’s close friends and confidantes, to (privately) get the man the psychiatric help he desperately needs and mitigate any future damage without permanently jeopardizing his freedom.

But on the very slim possibility Tony is right…

“Who knows about you and Iron Man?” Steve whispers furiously.

Tony tenses. “Why do you ask?”

“Who, Tony?” he repeats, his tone firm. “Who knows about you?”

“No one.”

This is no time for equivocation, for lies and denials.

“I may not be a genius, but I’m far from stupid. Someone had to cover for you; someone had to take that arc reactor out of your chest. Keeping a secret of this magnitude is impossible,” Steve reasons, he dips down to whisper in his ear, “Quickly, Tony. I need to know who to send back for you.”

Tony remains skeptical. “How do I know you aren’t just going to round them all up and assassinate them later?”

“And how do I know this isn’t an act? That when you get out of here, you aren’t going to resume your acts of terrorism? It’s just been property damage so far – unmanned drones and warehouse; no one’s been killed – but keep this up long enough, and someone is bound to get in your way. I can still tell S.H.I.E.L.D. your identity after the worst has happened, but we both know you have the resources to stay hidden for a long time,” he rambles, looking back up towards the tree line. How long will it take S.H.I.E.L.D. to reach their location? 40 minutes? Perhaps an hour, given that their rescuers don’t know exactly where their camp is? Either way, Steve doesn’t have much time. “We’re both just going to have to trust each other. Do you trust me, Tony?”

Tony is silent, then: “…Pepper. Tell Pepper where I am, and she’ll arrange transport out.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Steve says, releasing him. Tony scrambles across their makeshift camp, turning back to regard Steve, a questioning glint in his eye. “Now go. Hide in the caves, and wait for rescue. I’ll tell them Iron Man died. Went down in the crash and couldn’t have possibly survived. When you get home, don’t resurface as Iron Man, alright? We can figure this out later, but for now, just get out of here. Help will be coming soon.”

Tony sprints out the back of their home into the surrounding brush and trees, leaving Steve only moments to collect himself and hide any evidence of a second occupant before the STRIKE team makes contact.

So, he disrupts the sand showing smaller footprints, moves Tony’s leaf mat over his own, smashes the second empty coconut container they had been using as mugs, and pushes Tony’s inventions into a pile to be covered over with remaining plastic sheeting, the corners of which he weighs down with rocks.

By the time, Brock Rumlow and his STRIKE team descend upon the camp, it’s just Steve, sitting on his mat and eating his fish off a stick.

“Rumlow!” Steve exclaims, pushing up to a standing position and rushing over to embrace the man like the touch-starved castaway he’s pretending to be. “I’m so glad to see you. It’s been weeks; I was beginning to suspect you’d never find me.” He peers over Rumlow’s shoulder at the others circling round – all thirteen of them. “Hey guys! Let’s say we get going. I can’t wait to go home. Anybody want pizza? It’s on me.”

Rumlow pushes him back. “Rogers, according to your last report, you were bringing in Iron Man,” he states, all business. He makes eye contact with his fellow operatives before his gaze darts to various corners of the encampment. They fan out.

“He went down with the Quinjet. It’s just been me since,” Steve lies, his voice even.

Perhaps it’s the fact that Steve’s only company for the last couple weeks has been a man convinced his coworkers are dangerous, are HYDRA double-agents, that inspires the crawling sensation up his spine. It skitters upwards, nestling somewhere deep in his brain where it continues to needle him, to warn him of imminent danger. His neck tenses as he spots Rollins, who has dipped under the palm fronds to assess his lean-to.

“Hey, do you mind? I’ve been here for weeks, and I could really use a shower,” Steve calls out, but Rollins slips under completely, invading a space only meant for Tony and himself and the occasional rat (the small mammal, not the human variety).

“So, if we were to search the crash site, we would find him?” Rumlow presses.

There are sirens going off in Steve’s mind. “Maybe. If his body hasn’t washed away in the riptide, but based on how quickly the cabin filled with water, I’d say it’s not intact enough to hold him.”

Rollins approaches Rumlow, carrying a familiar packet of handmade papers. Steve freezes. “Those are mine.”

“Hm…” Rumlow hums, leafing through the drawings, stopping at the one Steve had made of Tony, sprawled on the mat, his face mercifully hidden from view. “And who is this?”

“…It’s been over two weeks, and a man has needs,” Steve crosses his arms, feigning nonchalance, but by now, the other members of the STRIKE team have stopped their search and drawn closer. “So I drew my own porn. What of it?”

He’s surrounded. The one to his right is sweating. Another has snapped off the safety clasp from his service weapon.

“And how did you make the paper?” Rumlow queries. “No offense, but this is a little beyond your skill set. It’s a bit more… _technical_ would be the word.”

They close in. Steve watches them from the corner of his eye, his mouth a thin line.

“Where is he, Cap?”

“Are you HYDRA?” Steve asks.

He expects Rumlow to be surprised, horrified, for him to sputter, his eyes to widen, perhaps to take a half-step back at the accusation. At the very least, a denial wouldn’t be out of place.

Instead, Rumlow simply chuckles. He looks down at his feet, raising an arm to scratch the back of his head. “What tall tales has Iron Man been filling your head with? I’d say I was insulted, but–”

An agent behind Steve brings down his baton on his leg, dropping him to his knees as the STRIKE team descends. There’s an arm around his neck attempting to choke him out while the others crowd around, grabbing his arms and legs, trying to hold him steady while two agents place his wrists in electromagnetic cuffs to draw them together. Steve strains against the pull, elbowing the man holding back his arm and snapping the cuff off of right wrist, as it jets off to connect to its twin on his left. Using the heavy cuff, he beats off the man on his left, while kicking away those trying to hold his legs. He plants his feet on the ground, flipping the agent choking him over his back, stomping on him for good measure to keep him down. Rollins gets a good hit to his side with a baton, but Steve punches him out as well.

“Whoa, big guy. I just want you to know, Cap, this ain’t personal,” he says, as he engages the cattle prod, the remaining agents flanking Steve.

“It kind of feels personal,” Steve says as he ducks in to catch Rumlow by the wrist, but the man angles the prod down, giving Steve an electric shock and forcing a scream from his throat as he punches it away.

Rumlow applies another hit to his middle, forcing Steve to pull back, but not before swiping Rumlow’s legs out from under him.

“Fuck this!” Rollins is back on his feet, his gun aimed at Steve, prompting others to point theirs in Steve’s direction as well. “Do we really need to bring him back alive?”

“We have our orders,” Rumlow pants out as Steve backs up. “But they said nothing about his kneecaps.”

A crack rings out, and Rollins is the one who has fallen to the ground, screaming, the exit wound out the front of his knee having completely obliterated his patella.

Rumlow and the agents still standing turn towards the source of the shot to see what Steve had spotted near the treeline behind them moments before. It’s Tony wearing STRIKE tactical gear, his face obscured by S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue ski mask, goggles, and helmet, aiming a semi-automatic rifle at Rumlow’s head.

The threat is clear: Steve walks, or none of them do.

Steve edges around the carnage, giving the STRIKE team a wide berth as he makes his way towards Tony. He reaches him, and the two back up into the forest before disappearing into the underbrush. When they lose sight of the agents, they both abruptly turn to run towards the other beach, where the Quinjet awaits.

Steve can hear rustling and shouts behind them as the STRIKE team realize their ultimate destination and head in after them. He ducks behind a tree, pulling Tony in right after him as a bullet whistles by, striking a tree ahead of them. They’ll never get back at this rate, so Steve picks Tony up low across his waist, lifting him up to continue his run through the forest, allowing the man enough clearance to hold his rifle over Steve’s shoulder, shooting into the trees behind them. It will be a bumpy ride for Tony, which means his accuracy is nil, but it certainly works as a deterrent to those who may come after them. Besides, at the speed Steve is going, he’s likely outstripping the others even while carrying Tony, and they break through the forest on the other side in twenty minutes flat. Steve doesn’t stop, running right up to the Quinjet, noting the unconscious guard at the base.

“In my defense, he’s probably HYDRA, too,” Tony mutters furiously.

“Less talking, more flying,” Steve orders. He puts Tony down, quickly activating the mechanism to close the hatch and lock it tight. Tony rushes over to the piloting console, flipping on the controls and launching the Quinjet just as the more-mobile agents make it to the beach to watch their only chance at getting off the island jet off, parting the surface of the ocean in its wake.

“Take the wheel, Cap,” Tony says as he vacates the pilot’s seat to be replaced by Steve.

Steve looks over at Tony who is fiddling with some contraption off to the right. “What are you doing?”

“Disabling the tracking device so S.H.I.E.L.D. can’t tell where we’re going,” he states, pulling out a small tracking beacon and crushing it underfoot. “Keep her steady while I disable the backups.”

When Tony returns, he directs Steve to change course, setting the autopilot to fly towards a small African nation Steve has never even heard of.

Once they are en route to somewhere safe, Steve burrows his face in his hands.

“So… HYDRA,” he says. HYDRA was supposed to be long gone, defunct since Steve had taken out their leader seventy years prior. How had they infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D.? How had he, not to mention Howard and Peggy, been so blind to their creeping influence on their life’s work?

“Yeah, I know. It’s kind of a mindfuck if you think about it long enough,” Tony commiserates.

Steve stands, pacing the length of the Quinjet. “We have to tell someone. Fury. Pierce. They can’t all be HYDRA.”

“We don’t know who to trust. Besides, when they pick up Rumlow and the rest, STRIKE will say Iron Man turned you. They’ll label you a traitor,” Tony reasons, rising to his feet to intercept Steve. He places his hands on Steve’s upper arms, stilling him. “You can’t go back. You’re a fugitive, an enemy combatant. We need to fight them from the other side for now, gather our own evidence, look for opportunities to take down the whole enterprise.”

Steve knows Tony is right. Like Fury had once told him, in this line of work, he can’t trust anyone, especially not when he had been so wrong for years. But Tony’s plan? It’s crazy: a handful of people against an entire security and intelligence agency with nearly unlimited resources. Though, to be fair, Steve has never let long odds stop him.

And he would have Tony. The man had been doing it for years. Tony, who had infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D., ostensibly to help them, then sabotaged his own creations. Tony, who pulled Steve from the wreck, who had come back for him at the risk his anonymity, of his very life, when he clearly could have flown away and left them all to rot…

Steve could trust Tony.

“Okay, I’m in.”

“Excellent.” Tony pats his upper arms before disengaging. “Now, you’re going to need a new name.”

Steve considers it. He is a man without a country, a renegade disillusioned with S.H.I.E.L.D., on the run from those he had pledged his allegiance to many times over.

“…How about Nomad?”

“Sounds a bit emo,” Tony’s brows raise as he looks up in thought. “I like it. I can even design your new outfit.” When Steve looks ready to protest, he throws up his hands, palms out in a placating motion. “No, no, really! Hear me out on this one: How do you feel about deep V’s?” He traces his finger lightly down from Steve’s chest to his belly button. “I was thinking to hereabouts. What do you say?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Steve places his hands on his hips as he regards Tony with a skeptical expression.

Tony isn’t about to let it go. “But Steve! Think about it. If you’re fighting crime without the backing of Uncle Sam, you’re going to need every advantage you can get. Wouldn’t you be distracted if a studly beefcake such as yourself showed up to a knife fight with half his shirt missing?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Because Iron Man is so revealing?” A man fully encased in body armor has no room to suggest Steve show a little skin.

“Trust me. If I had your perfect body, I’d never cover it with clothes.” He gives Steve a once-over in obvious appreciation. “Ever.”

“Like you don’t have an enviable physique yourself.”

“You flatter me, honey,” Tony says lightly, “but we both know I can’t pull off a deep V to save my life, unless I wanted to shock and awe the competition with this highly-identifying mass of scar tissue.”

“I guess that scar pattern is distinctive. If S.H.I.E.L.D. knew what Iron Man had under that armor, you’d never be able to go shirtless on a beach as Tony Stark, and that would be a shame.”

Tony gives him an odd look. He is silent for a beat. “There’s a plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills that specializes in scar revision, but… I don’t know if it’s worth it to go under the knife again, and there are no guarantees–”

_Oh._

Steve pulls him into a firm embrace. “Tony, you know you’re beautiful as you are, right?”

“You don’t have to pretend. I know what it looks like under here” _and you don’t,_ goes unspoken.

Steve had only seen the bits and edges that Tony had allowed, tiny glimpses through his torn shirt or when his neckline hung low. And what Steve had seen was ragged and scarred multiple times over, the ghost of a terrible wound spoken of in his personnel report on Tony: an explosion that should have killed him, treated by a captive surgeon in some dirty cave, then repaired by yet another surgeon under significantly better conditions. He had never seen the extent of Tony’s scarring in full, but Steve had been in the army. During the war, he had seen his fair share of wounds and amputations and scars, healed pink and puffed, the skin pulled tight over the loss, and every one of them had meant the same thing.

“I’m completely serious,” Steve tells him, soft and gentle into his hair. “You’re beautiful, Tony. I’ve always thought so. And whatever you have under there… it’s not going to change my mind, because those scars? They mean you survived.” He plants a kiss to his forehead. “And I’m so very glad you survived, sweetheart.”

Tony hugs him back just as tight, his head tilted to bury his face in Steve’s chest. If Steve happened to feel the spot become damp, he doesn’t say anything.

“Now, you and I, let’s get those bastards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay people, this is the end. If you enjoyed it, please feed the author by letting me know down in the comments section!


End file.
